


If Loyalties Lie

by GhostoftheMotif, qualapec



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Best Friends, Betrayal, Brothers, Execution, Friendship, Gen, Loss, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Post-World War II, Treason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-14
Updated: 2012-05-14
Packaged: 2017-11-05 08:47:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostoftheMotif/pseuds/GhostoftheMotif, https://archiveofourown.org/users/qualapec/pseuds/qualapec
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no mistake more final than a wrongful death sentence, no lie worth the loss of a friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Light came from the window to his left and from a lamp on the far side of his room, but he sat sheltered from the weak glare. The transparent sheets of yellow fell across the rug and ash that accumulated from the precious cigarettes he’d smoked down to nothing. He was only vaguely aware of the scatterings of grey. He didn’t have it in him to look out on the Paris streets, let alone to observe the room that had become his prison. Instead, he sat rigidly in a chair pressed to the wall and kept his eyes locked on the window frame. The paint was chipping, the white beginning to yellow in places; it didn’t appall him as much as it would have a year or even a few months before.     
    
It was the same home he’d lived in for the last two decades, and yet it was no longer his. These things were a part of him, but they did not belong to him anymore. For the time being, he only belonged to himself in a purely spiritual and therefore useless sense.    
    
France’s hand rose abruptly to his neck, found the thin chain hidden beneath his shirt, and ran his fingers down to the weight at his chest. The Croix de Lorraine fit perfectly in his palm, and he tightened his grip until the corners bit into his skin. It would take time for the resistance against the occupation to take form, but he could feel his children stirring, and he knew the symbol they would carry. France would champion them before they even knew their cause. It was all he could do. In all else, he was powerless.    
    
The doors to his room opened, the hinges giving a sharp whine in protest.    
    
His eyes sank closed, and he took a breath. A flickering of fear danced up his spine, curled over his shoulders, and threaded into his chest. France bade himself to ignore it. He wasn’t shaking; no, it was merely a chill from the open window.    
    
A smile, bright but vacant, ghosted across his face, and he turned to the door.    
    
Prussia.    
    
Ah, the smile was pointless then. It wouldn’t fool his friend. Still, his mask was his final weapon against the occupation.   
    
France spoke, carefully pouring honey over the syllables to mask the bitter taste. “I assume you’re the one I have to thank for my current good health.”    
    
Prussia’s hands were behind him, still on the doorhandles as he rested his weight backwards and pushed them closed. A smile just as pointless as France’s cut the pale face in half, vicious and domineering. “Who else?” He bent one leg, crossed his arms. “You’ve got a lot of things to thank me for, France.”    
    
“Of course,” France laughed easily, pleasantly; he felt sick. “You must mean the starvation and exploitation of my people. How could I ever overlook such kindness?”     
    
He received the answer he’d expected: a laugh. The realization that he still knew the nation in front of him was a raw thing. “Glad to see you’ve kept your tongue,” Prussia sneered, all teeth. “Tonight might be boring without it.”    
    
France maintained his smile, refused to let the dark tinge of betrayal wither his charade. “Oh, I’ve kept it, but if you try to abuse that fact, you may lose yours.”    
    
Amusement twisted the corners of Prussia’s sneer into a smirk. Even so, France could perceive the deranged edges of something born only in the past century glinting in his eyes. The expression was foreign and so familiar in the same stroke. “Who says that’s how I was going to use it? Maybe I’m just glad to see you haven’t been broken yet.” He shrugged. “I told Germany hands off, but his men have had a listening problem lately.”    
    
France caught the delicate subtext and took advantage of it. “And by that, you mean they aren’t listening to _you_. How wise of them.” But it wasn’t wise, and they both knew it. Prussia had been sculpted for war and possessed a deeply ingrained, albeit warped, sense of honor on the subject that Germany seemed to have either forgotten or ignored. Any hope the rest of the world had could rest on Prussia’s guidance, if he was even willing to give it.    
    
The other nation’s shoulders stiffened, and his jaw clenched. France realized, rather belatedly, that perhaps it would have been safer for him to choose a different retort. If the younger brother’s power and influence had truly risen above the elder’s, if the chain of events had escalated out of Prussia’s hands…  he would not want to be reminded of it. Helplessness did not suite Prussia. “I’ve kept you alive, haven’t I?” he bit out venomously. An angry tremor was evident in his voice and body.    
    
_Alive?_   
    
All pretenses dropped.    
    
“Barely,” France accused in a heated whisper reminiscent of consumption. One hand tightened on his pendent, the other falling to clench on the arm of his chair. “You brother hasn’t touched me, but his maltreatment of my people and land render that _mercy_ meaningless. I’m starving, but it doesn’t matter what I eat. As long as my people go hungry, so will I, and you know it. My bones are breaking and I haven’t even moved from this room. I have bruises from the lying on the _mattress_ , and I’m in too much pain to sleep.” He raised two fingers to spin in his hair, and when he pulled the fingers back, a bleached, brittle clump of the gold came with it. He brandished it at the other nation, a fevered glare in his eyes. “Is this how you meant to _protect_ me, Gilbert?”    
    
There was a sharp crack as Prussia slammed a fist against the door and the wood buckled. The leg that had been lazily bent straightened with the _clack_ of a boot heel on the wood floor before he began to march forward and the steps were muffled by the rug.    
    
The captive nation had no time to prepare himself for the sudden closeness as Prussia stood in front of him and bent forward, hands gripping the arms of France’s chair. France recoiled to keep them from touching. Their eyes locked, bloody, _Nazi_ red bearing down on royal blue.    
    
“Do you have any idea what would have happened if I hadn’t spoken for you?” Prussia’s breath was warm and carried the strong scent of tobacco and alcohol, his uniform still dappled with gunpowder. France could see the angry heaving of his chest and couldn’t help but notice how much strength the body in front of him possessed, more than enough to hurt him. He told himself he wasn’t afraid; it was a blatant, easily deconstructed lie.    
    
He wasn’t speaking to his friend.    
    
“The same cruelties you and your brother committed against the ones that fell before me?” France murmured softly.    
    
He gave him a disconcertingly thoughtful look. “Worse. They didn’t mean as much to me as you.” Prussia matched his whisper as he lifted a hand to run it through France’s hair, mindful of the strands he pulled loose. France shuddered but had no space to pull away. “Because as soon as I can justify crossing that line…”    
    
“ _Justify?_ ” France repeated incredulously. He forced himself to breathe, to stay calm, to not let the sensation of being boxed in by, by someone he used to _trust_ overwhelm him. “Don’t even try to claim you need justification. What part of this war could you possibly conceive as being justified?”    
    
Prussia didn’t answer, hand beginning to slide so slowly from France’s hair to his cheek that it was nearly unperceivable.    
    
“What part…?” France pressed, a low unhealthy chill in his tone. The words were hoarse, rough. His eyes traveled carefully over his once-lover’s face. “Your dead children ripe and rotting in the fields? Your living children emaciated and tortured behind barbed wire fences?” He leaned forward and said the next words as sweetly and smoothly as he could. “Your baby brother driven insane and sullied past the point of recognition?”    
    
Anger, heady and scalding, shot across Prussia’s face. When he spoke there was too much passion for it not to be a source of doubt. “Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for Ludwig. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for my brother.”    
    
“And what am I?” France demanded, voice breaking involuntarily from its whisper.    
    
The blow caught him where the bone jutted out beneath the temple. His head snapped to the side so fast that he bit down on his tongue and felt blood hot on his lips. France wondered how dark the bruise would be in comparison to the pale ones already dusting his jaw and the corner of his other eye. He’d grown so accustomed to the constant dull pressure of pain that the sudden sharpness of it only confused him.    
    
He took a breath, and it rattled in his chest, tasted strange.    
    
Prussia’s hand snaked around his throat, turned his head until their eyes met again. The grip was tight, made him feel faint.    
    
France spoke again, couldn’t leave the rest unsaid. His tongue moved sluggishly into speech, tugged lazily at eloquence. “Poor creature… You aren’t fighting for your brother or his leader’s cause. You’re fighting because the old ways are dying, and you’re dying with them.” The grip constricted, and he gasped for air, one hand lifting to fasten helplessly on Prussia’s steel wrist, tried futilely to prevent the tips of the gloved hands from digging new bruises in the back of his neck. “You’re just… trying to hold on…”    
    
And then he saw it, a look of fear in Prussia’s eyes. It was only a flash, knife-like and quick, but France caught it and felt his heart stutter.    
    
For a brief, blinding moment he wanted to hold him.     
    
Then Prussia lifted him, pulled him forward, ignorant of the cracked ribs that made France cry out breathlessly. Their faces were close, one pair of eyes glazed with pain and lack of oxygen, the other feverish with anger and bloodlust. “I’m fighting because I enjoy it,” he hissed. “All I wanna do is force you and your _allies_ face down in the mud you’ve been holding my brother under for years. And you know something? I’ve almost done it.” Prussia eased forward, murmured in his ear, lips brushing against his cheek. “We’re gonna bomb the hell out of your precious _Angelterre_ , and when he’s dead, there won’t be any of you left to stand against us.”    
    
“He… won’t fall.”  _He swore to me he wouldn’t._ If Napoleon had not conquered Britain, neither would the Third Reich.    
    
“He will,” Prussia assured him. Then, as if he was washing his hands of him, he shoved France back against the chair, let go, and stepped back. “You asked me what you were. You’re just a prize, France. A pretty bird in a cage.” He opened his hands wide and shrugged. His smile looked pained. “And what’s the point of keeping a prize alive when everyone’s too dead or too broken to see it?”    
    
~~~    
    
The German soldiers apprehended him with an unnecessary amount of fear. They'd attacked him from behind, gagged him, and then slid the black bag over his head before he finished choking on the cloth in his mouth. Thick iron shackles -not handcuffs- were used to bind his wrists and ankles, the heavy chains only long enough for limited mobility. A final, larger shackle was secured around his neck and used to guide him in addition to the two burly Germans roughly pressing their fingers into the bruises and burns on his arms. He made a startled noise of pain that was muffled by the gag, but not muffled enough to keep it from being rewarded with a twisting, tighter grip.   
    
The final touch: the carriage snapping back on a _Luger_ before the barrel was pressed into the cloth of the blindfold, right between France's eyes. The officer hacked, "We have orders to kill you if you resist."    
    
France had already surrendered.    
    
He soon gave up trying to keep track of where they were taking him. He could already predict their next turn on Parisians streets like he could predict the coming heartbeat. Besides, where they were going was not important if he had no illusions of escape. There was a time he could have broken steel with his bare hands, defeated six soldiers and shaken off bullet wounds...not anymore.    
    
France was on his last life, and it seemed as though dear Prussia had rescinded his protection.     
    
The car stopped on gravel and he was dragged out the side door, but only after the officer holding the gun had stepped outside. France felt a moment of fear at the thought they'd driven him out to the country to execute him. As they walked, he kept expecting them to shove him down and pull the trigger.    
    
He almost cried when he nearly tripped over a marble staircase. The fall jostled his broken bones, but the resulting nausea distracted him from the pain of something splintering and shifting between his ribs. Surprise alone almost made him swallow the cloth in his mouth. The chain at his neck snapped backwards and made him wheeze. The angered soldiers hauled him back to a standing position, and he felt their muscles go taut with restrained violence.    
    
The forced march continued, into the manor and down a series of hallways until, at last, they entered a room where he was thrown onto a small wooden chair.    
    
There was a whistle of air and rustling cloth as someone whipped off the bag.    
    
Sudden exposure to bright lights made France blink.    
    
"Gentleman," said Prussia with the cocky assurance of a carnival man, "the nation of France."    
    
France met his abductor as defiantly as possible. Prussia was all blood and loathing, and he portrayed it brilliantly with one anticipatory smile. France felt he had already come to the sickening realization of what would happen in this room. What Prussia had orchestrated was a mystery, but France knew he would soon suffer greatly for being dismissive during their last encounter. He almost felt like challenging Prussia to _do it_ himself, and it showed.    
    
Prussia licked his lips. He became the cat with the mouse. _I'll enjoy it_ , he sneered before walking over to a long table and taking his place among a handful of other officers. The other nation had an unsoldierly kick to his step as he claimed his seat at Germany's right hand side. Seeing his former friend - _lover_ \- enjoying this so much caused a small portion of France to freeze over and curl in on itself, as if he was trying to wrap his fire, his love, and his rising panic into a protective shell. But that piece of him was too defeated, too overcome to stave off the memories that tried in vain to contradict what Prussia had become.   
    
France felt small, exposed in his pathetic state. Despite everything, there was still a part of him that lamented his appearance.    
    
"Francis Bonnefoy," Germany addressed formally. The fact that he wasn't using 'France' was a bad sign in and of itself. Combined with the emotionless frost in Germany's voice it was a harbinger of death. Germany was keeping his face perfectly neutral, but the use of France's human -his mortal name- betrayed the true intentions of this tribunal.    
    
They planned to kill him. It was true that France had suspected as such from the start... but the idea of a board of officials arranging to make his coming death official, arrange some end date that he would be aware of and dreading the entire time... that terrified him.    
    
He couldn't tell Germany exactly what he thought of him with the gag in his mouth but tried to straighten himself proudly in his seat.    
    
"Would you look at that," Prussia sneered, sitting sideways in his chair. "The proud France meeting his fate like a man. Never thought I'd live to see that since he spreads his legs like a woman at the drop of an English top hat."    
    
France realized why he was gagged, so he couldn't reveal how Prussia hadn't minded so much when he was the one spreading them.    
    
A few of the men snickered in response. Germany shot his brother a warning look. "That's enough."    
    
Everyone went quiet.    
    
Germany cleared his throat and began, "In order for the assimilation of his people into German ideology, my boss believes it may be necessary to eliminate Francis Bonnefoy. This meeting has been called to order to discuss this possibility." He delivered it amazingly devoid of humanity. Was this truly what Germany had become, or was he hiding his feelings behind an infinitely practical mask?    
    
"I think it's a swell idea," Prussia said, looking unfalteringly at France as he said it.   
    
One of the senior officers spoke up suddenly, with all the curtness and nonexistent courtesy of an old man tired of hiding meaning behind flowery words. "We should hang the swine. In the middle of Paris, where the French can see what has become of him."    
    
"A bullet is much faster and more assured."    
    
"How do we even know he'll die?"    
    
"Burn him, that way we can be sure."    
    
France thought of Jeanne, and a fearful shudder went down his spine.    
    
"That is a mess I don't think _our_ nation wants to clean up," another responded evenly, then added, "not to mention barbaric."    
    
Insanely, France felt a moment of grim relief.    
    
Relief quickly crushed when someone at the end of the line spoke up. "I say we take the guillotine out of retirement."    
    
France felt his heart stop; his entire body went rigid with instinctive fear. A thousand memories and empathetic sensation flowed through him as _his worst nightmare_ was unfolding before his eyes. He thought of the raw horror, the moment before the blade dropped and the last, strongest urge for self-preservation came and went with the knowledge that _it was too late_. _Madame_ Guillotine was merciless and uncaring towards those that bowed before her, and exacted violence with precision and disembodied brutality. He'd seen his people strapped and locked into her unbreakable embrace, suffer the worst moments of absolute terror in their lives... and then nothing.    
    
Panic lapped at his chest, cold and then searing, numb and then barbed. He fought the urge to coil around himself, cry at the thought of such a helpless death.    
    
"No!" Prussia snapped, drawing the attention of everybody in the room. For a moment, his bravado had slipped, the word sounding almost _desperate_. As he comprehended his break in character, Prussia straightened. "Nothing with a blade," he finished resolutely, implying that it explained the outburst.    
    
He was looking at France again, and the slightly sickened expression had snuck onto his face. France knew, without needing to speak, that Gilbert knew the effect such a sentence would have on him, but still didn't _want_ to see him so traumatized before the end. France's glare softened. _Thank you_.    
    
Everyone was stunned into silence, most notably Germany, who gave his brother a long, surprised stare that shook his chilled facade to its core. The shock was gone in seconds, and Prussia never noticed. Germany grabbed the files resting in front of him to neurotically straighten.    
    
"Sir," one of the officers asked, "what do you think?"    
    
Germany met France's gaze briefly before darting away. He sighed. "I apologize for the inconvenience... but it has been a while since I've seen France. He is stronger than I thought he would be."    
    
France couldn't believe it.    
    
"But, sir... look at him. He's a caricature of health!"    
    
Germany was _lying_ for him.    
    
"Don't mistake me," Germany replied. "We could kill him right now if we wanted to. But, those injuries are a sign of how closely bonded to his people he still is. The sudden death of their nation could cause widespread chaos, insanity, and rioting in the French population. And I refuse to put the security of the mission at risk for a death that is purely symbolic in the long run."    
    
France's breath was heaving as he struggled to wrap his mind around events. They had been about to have him killed... but now Germany was lying to save his life. Why? Even when the war started, there had never been any love lost between them.    
    
"This seems quite convenient," one bit off.    
    
Germany tensed against the challenge to his authority. "Perhaps it does. But how convenient would it be for you if I called _him_ up and informed him that you are distrustful of your own nation?" After that, nobody disagreed.    
    
Then he saw the way Prussia was looking at Germany... grateful, almost. As quickly as it came, it left. Suddenly, Prussia laughed. "Sure, brother. It _would_ suck for France not to see what your world will be like."    
    
France breathed out slowly. Squeezing his eyes shut, he felt his life returning to him. Only a minute ago, he'd been listening to them talk about how best to murder him. Too close. The entire thing had been too close. He felt like he'd been swept towards certain death and miraculously survived.    
    
And he had Prussia to thank for both events.    
    


~~~

    
Their positions were reversed five years later, and France didn't return the favor. The Allies discussed Prussia's sentence in clear, disillusioned voices, none of them casting a glance to the bound and broken form set apart from their table. France said nothing. When his vote was called for, he gave it in favor of execution. A numb, nameless feeling expanded in his chest, and he met the imprisoned nation's eyes as he spoke; he owed him that much.    
    
If there was anything France was good for, however, it was a lie. And as the wild, cornered gleam in Prussia's eyes flickered at his decision, France was already planning a betrayal.


	2. Chapter 2

Their steps echoed dully against the rough-hewn walls of the passage, the clipped notes overwhelmed by shouts bleeding through the archway of light in front of them. The noise was strangely muted to their ears, soft and scraping. None of the nations walking beside him had spoken since they’d arrived at the site, but the way their hands and shoulders shook told France enough. This spectacle would cut his comrades to the quick, but nothing would tempt them to pause. On the contrary, France suspected that parts of them they would rather deny reveled in the triumph and steeled them against the remorse. After all, he could feel it in himself, and he had much more to mourn in this tasteless display.  

His eyes locked on the back of England’s head, and he wondered, not for the first time, if the Brit would forgive him. It seemed unthinkable that he wouldn’t be able to connect France to the coming events, even if there was no surviving evidence to substantiate his suspicion. Men as old and familiar as they were did not need proof; a look in the eyes was sufficient, and that would be England’s first instinct. 

With a swallow that did nothing to dislodge the dry, phantom sensation of cotton in his throat, France supposed the question he should be contemplating was whether he could forgive England _._ Of course he understood the necessity of the execution England had advocated, the inherent need to prevent a sick dog from lashing out at the men who cornered it. But they weren’t on a march towards a sick dog; they were approaching a confined wolf in a friend’s skin, and they were about to walk into the creature’s cage. 

Then the sound around France broke, shattered, and even in his mild delirium he knew that they’d passed from the proverbial Styx and into the pit. 

A thousand small, wan snatches of thought flitted through his mind: the walls were too white, the stands towering above them were too full and too deafening, the sky was too sweet of a blue--- but the only thought that cemented itself, bound itself to him with sharp, cool hooks, was the one that took in the figure standing against the distant, pale bricks. 

Prussia’s body was a stark outline despite his skin and clothes only being a fraction whiter than the wall behind him. The cerise of his eyes was almost picturesque in the pallor, bright and defiant. He'd obviously denied the customary blindfold. 

France’s feet left the firm comfort of stone and touched on sand. He faltered in the open air, and America and Russia passed him on either side, turning their formation into a diamond with England at its point. The weight of the rifle in his hand wasn’t merely heavy; it bit him like dry ice, and he did everything he could not to let it slip through his fingers and into the dirt. His hesitation passed before anyone could take notice of it, a short stumble and a shorter flicker of the eyes. For the sake of what he intended to do, he could not allow himself the tremble in his hands. He had to maintain the bitter resolve that had driven him to this point. 

England came to a halt, America taking a position to his left.  

Russia stopped farther to the right, leaving a space beside England that France numbly filled. 

Red eyes fell from scanning the crowds above them and locked on England’s face. The sneer that curved Prussia’s lips looked ill, feverish and too slow not to be forced. He said nothing; his last words had been given the previous night. Nothing short of salvation would make him speak again. 

And so he _would_ speak. 

But not yet. 

France’s hands clenched; he resisted the urge to entertain the possibility of what would happen if he failed. 

With a hiss of a sigh, England straightened, and something in the way he stood, something in the air around him, reached the citizens in the stands. They fell silent, their quiet unnatural, heavy. Choking. “Make ready!” England’s voice cut through them all, clear, stolid. 

Their rifles moved in their hands, the clicks simultaneous.  

“Aim!” 

Pressed into their shoulders, staring down the sites.  

Prussia’s expression was unchanged. His eyes slipped from England’s to France’s. The look ached. 

France heard England take a breath and--- 

“ _Long live the Kingdom of Prussia!_ ” the cry was rough and potent, cracking through the silence like a lash.  

A bullet bit into the dirt at England’s feet, sending up a spray of sand. 

It was the spark; first one cry, then another rising over the confused Allies until the stadium was in a roar. No longer were the voices the chatter of a mourning populace. Now their voices were charged with latent nationalism. It was very easy to underestimate humans until they banded together, shouted as one mass and charged. Next to France, his comrades looked around frantically, trying to determine the source of the disturbance without knowing their chance to snuff the flame had come and gone. 

A few more gunshots raged through the arena. Only when a wine glass -thrown by a female loyalist- missed America's head by inches did he snap into action. "It's an ambush!" he yelled, moved his back to England's and France's in one fluid motion. The Allies collapsed around one another, forming a circle as the situation spiraled like a ship in a maelstrom. 

"Riot!" England snapped back. Prussia forgotten, the rifle trained itself on the yelling crowd, but there were too many people. France saw the hesitation on England's face as he turned the sights from person to person. They were spilling down the walls now, like the blood of oppressors, men and women leapt from the stands and ran towards the startled nations. Any weapon they could gather in the mob was in hand and ready to _smash_. England calculated in a few moments there would be no killing all of them. 

France had already known. Between the four of them, they did not have enough ammunition, even if they could find the frame of mind to select targets. 

America's voice was breaking, "What do we do, England?" He'd never reacted well to surprise. 

A louder gunshot -from a rifle this time and painfully close- accompanied by Russia's panicked whimper. His control over the situation was disappearing and he was beating pointlessly against the inevitable. Russia, without the inhibitions of the others, was firing into the crowd. One, two people fell and bled into the sand... but it was a ripple in the flowing tide. Useless. 

For a terrified moment, staring into the eyes of the deranged masses, France wondered what he'd brought down upon them. 

Their own guards had come into action, soldiers were filing into the coliseum, but it was a token counter move. Nobody had expected an uprising like this; nobody thought that people without guns would rise up against people _with_ guns. France duly noted the ancient mistake. Soldiers collided with the rioters, scattered them, and the Allies found themselves pinned between the two. 

France was separated from the others when somebody yanked the mantle of his blue service uniform (honestly, the thing had been nothing but trouble since he'd put it on). He rammed the butt of his gun into the nearest stomach before lashing out with the bayonet. In the corner of his vision, a body went flying. Russia? America? England didn't have the strength for that. 

Someone's fist planted in France's jaw, forcing his head to snap and spin onto the sand. Several people descended upon him at once kicking, breaking with heavy boots, not knowing he'd facilitated their suppressed fury. 

A bone snapped somewhere inside him, warm, wet blood slipped from his nose and splashed against the sand under his cheek. 

Rough, stark hands grabbed him by the hair, yanked him upwards, and forced his neck to straighten as the green glass of a broken bottle lunged for his jugular. 

France would have none of that. Twisting his body, he managed to shift the grip and tear free of his assailant, shoving him backwards into the thrum of rioters and guards. France knew a cluster of his hair had been taken in the process, but took heart in the fact he wasn't weakly gushing blood whilst being victim to rampant trampling. 

Incoherently, he fought to grasp his surroundings. Everything looked the same, marble walls spinning around him, building a column of white and blue that stretched its way to the burning sunlight at the end of the tunnel. France staggered himself to action, shouldered his way through the human clot in an effort to keep moving. Chaos would protect him; that had been the plan from the beginning. 

Then, he saw what he was looking for. 

Six men cut a swathe through the insane fog. Moving with speed and precision, they wielded batons and were well trained in their use. Like a single, concise blade they shot through the unrest and found their goal. Quickly, and with the speed and military precision the Germanic states were famed for, they grabbed Prussia. Three stood watch and fended off or redirected any would-be attackers, most of whom ignored their presence as they focused on creating a vacillating wall. Two men used bolt-cutters to slice the chain holding him to the wall while a third used the keys he'd been given to remove the shackles around Prussia's ankles. In moments, Prussia was mobile. However, the dumbfounded look on his face and weak condition rendered him useless for flight. One of them tossed him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, then the loyalists were moving again. Towards the exit gate that had been left open. _Towards freedom and life_. 

France allowed himself a moment of elated success... quickly crushed by the golden nation rising at the other end of the stadium. 

America was freed from some mound of flesh and bone, then raised his rifle and aimed. France had seen the wild, justice-seeking bloodlust in the younger man before. Blood from a head wound caked his hair, dribbled down the line of his jaw. Through cracked glasses, he stared down the sights and narrowed in on his target. 

France didn't need to follow that gaze to know who he was aiming at. 

France hazarded a glance towards the loyalists and their nation. No good. They'd never make it out before America fired. 

And America prided himself on never missing, on speed and precision. Pure fury cast out any essence of the remorse he may have felt, smothered it under the desire for the wrongful to pay. 

Fire raged through France, brought feeling back to his deadened limbs. _No_. He would not lose this, not when everything he'd risked was within reach. Before he knew it, his own rifle was leveled with the American nation's chest. 

His mind tried to find logic, tried to remind himself that _this was America_. The nation that had saved their lives when he'd had few reasons to enter the war. France, England, Russia... Without him, they would be dead or crushed under the boot of the Third Reich. It was true that he was nigh invincible, that the only person in the equation that _could_ die was Prussia. But pain was pain. Could he hurt someone who had done so much for him to save another who had tortured him? He'd already gone too far. If he hurt America, any chance of absolution from England was gone as well. For a feral heartbeat, France hesitated. 

A faceless stranger that could not know the gravity of his movement shoved another rioter, and he collided with America just as the trigger was being pulled, just as France's own finger twitched. The shot went wild as America fell, burying itself in a wall, chipping stone. 

France _breathed_.

 

~~~

 

It was obvious by the time the stadium had been cleared and some semblance of order restored that France’s precautions had only been enough to save him from one nation’s suspicion. America was too trusting, believed too unquestioningly in their wartime bonds as the Allies. The thought that Gilbert’s savior could have been one of their own never occurred to him; the irony of this, that a bond formed in an alliance years ago was the root of the betrayal, was not lost on France.

Apart from a single, half-smiled remark when French soldiers offered their aid in hunting down the escapee, Russia made no comment or allusion that he knew the truth. France simply was not sure of the northern nation’s position on the subject. Russia had the frustrating habit of wearing the same expression, no matter his stance. It was a strategy France was very familiar with. Hazarding a guess, however, France supposed that Russia suspected his connection but did not care enough to pursue it.

Russia had his eyes on bigger game. The tension between him and America felt like a crackling wall of static, their occasional jabs during Allied meetings like cracking whips. France did wonder when the situation between the Russians and the Americans was going to deteriorate, but it was a problem for another day.

If the potential for discovery had ended with America and Russia, France was almost certain he’d have been secure.

Unfortunately, that was not the case.

From the moment the rioters had been subdued until the moment the nations parted that night, England’s eyes had not left France’s face.

Now, the following afternoon, France had little choice but to wait for England to approach him. He couldn’t afford chancing the journey to Gilbert’s refuge until after their confrontation. He needed to know how much England had discerned and what his intended responses were. Even if he was convinced of France’s guilt, it didn’t mean the cause was lost. It was a matter of France persuading him there was no danger in Gilbert’s survival. The argument was one he couldn’t risk making when Gilbert had been caught and chained; France was too outnumbered on the subject, and afterwards he would have been watched. With Gilbert safe in another country and the other nations tired and ready to return to their land, the prospects were greater.

France propped the papers on his borrowed desk on one loose palm and raked a hand through his hair. The home he and his delegation were residing in did not possess much by way of lighting, and the small upstairs office had nonsensically less. If he’d really been doing work, it would have been maddening. As things were, he only needed to make sure the leaflets were in a small pool of the glow to keep up appearances.

There was the sharp rap of a knock at the door, and then the familiar informality England saved only for him of it being opened without waiting for a response.

France kept his eyes on the papers a few seconds longer than necessary, collecting himself. His breath had caught in his throat, and it _hurt_ , but he swallowed past it without struggle. There would be time for him to dwell later; right now he needed his trademark insincerity.

God, when this was resolved, just let England see how much France loved him, let not this sordid affair send England fleeing back to his island, justified in staving off his own feelings.

When he lifted his face to acknowledge the nation in the doorway, he was smiling, and only his pulse would have given him away. “You’re late, England.” He rested his head on a fist, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Have you been able to get in contact with your boss? Mine insists that we shouldn’t be worrying about chasing after Weillschmidt so much as discovering the conspirators. I would have to agree with him. Between the four of us, we should have enough of an intelligence network to make that a painless investigation.”

“Yes, I’ve spoken with the prime minister.” No greeting, just a statement. “He said something of the same effect, but I’m afraid I had to correct him.” England’s arms were crossed but not rigid. His posture would have seemed relaxed, unbothered to anyone except for France. “If I know the architect as well as I believe I do, there will not be any evidence left for us to uncover.”

France’s heart stuttered; his smile didn’t.

“He will have made his arrangements outside the country and away from all jurisdictions but his own,” England continued, hands falling to his sides as he crossed towards the desk. “The rioters themselves were instigated without being aware of it, but they still have that fever, and it makes them pointless to interrogate. The Prussian Loyalists that aided in the true plot have escaped with Weillschmidt.” He took a seat, one leg crossing over the other. “They killed the bribed guards on their way out, though that may not have been part of the plan. It was rushed; they botched one, and he didn’t die until after we found him. The whole group was in town for less than a day, and we can find no indication that they stayed at an inn or stopped to eat along the road.”

“Well, what do you need the rest of us for? You seem to have found quite a lot of information in such a short period of time,” France laughed lightly. “Should I suspect your involvement?”

England smirked, but there was no humor in it. “No more than I should suspect yours.”

France matched his expression and hoped the mask was as lighthearted as he intended; he was never quite sure what his face was doing when England was involved. “You implied that you know the architect?”

“Yes, we’re supposed to be having lunch.” The words were spoken fluidly, casually.

A chill ran through his body, unseen. France arched his eyebrows, for all the world still in good humor. “Then you’ve doublebooked, Angelterre. You’re supposed to be having lunch with me.”

“Forgive me,” England replied, and it was nearly a sneer. “We’ll have to merge our appointments. I suspect you’ll both approve of the wine.”

“A man of sophisticated tastes, then? If that’s the case, I’d hate to keep him waiting.” France stood, one hand resting on the desk. “It’s five past noon. Should we leave?”

England remained seated for a moment, looking up at him with a dangerously calm expression. “Not until I figure out what I’m going to do with him. You see…” He rose to his feet very slowly, leaning forward until both his hands splayed on the dark wood of the desk. “Recently I placed a great deal of trust in this man. I just fought a war alongside him, actually. I risked and lost the lives of _so many of my children_ to save him, and I was under the impression he appreciated that.” Their eyes locked and froze France in his place. “After all we’ve been through these last five years, I thought the sentiment between us had changed. Apparently, I was mistaken. He’s as capricious and untrustworthy as he’s always been.”

They stared at each other from across the desk, and for the life of him, France could think of nothing to say. He was too busy preventing himself from using every weapon of emotion he possessed to beg him not to believe that last sentence. There would be time to repair this later…if fortune favored.

“So, France…” England’s voice dropped, low and hoarse. “What would you suggest I do with him?”

France wet his lips, controlled his poise. “The last time I gave suggestions on that subject you gave me a black eye and emptied your glass over my head. On account of the pistol in the left pocket of your coat, you’ll have to pardon me if I’m reluctant to answer.”

“I don’t have to pardon you for anything,” England growled, and his hand shot forward to tangle in the fabric of France’s uniform, twisting so it tightened around the nation’s neck.

“But you will,” he whispered, and something about the helpless tinge in his tone kept England’s revealed fury at bay.

“You’ve put all of us in danger for the sake of your deluded, hopeless notions of romanticism!” England bit out, wrenching him forward a few inches.

France let himself be moved. His smiled twisted. “Ah, but what can I say? I _am_ a hopeless romantic.” As evidenced by his current position. His eyes sank closed. “But you’re wrong to say I’ve put us in danger. I was telling the truth when I said I believed the conspirators were the most important factor in these events. Gilbert has no land. He is no longer a nation. If the men that freed him do not intend to use him for war, if he is not given influence over military or government, then he’s harmless.”

“Gilbert Weillschmidt is never harmless, you besotted idiot! You of all people should know what you’ve just set free!”

“He fought because he could feel himself beginning to die. Any of use would do the same. The ideology was not his doing. That brother is still in your custody.”

“ _He tried to kill you, France!_ ”

It was a shout, and France heard the truth of what England really meant in the single statement. This wasn’t merely about the betrayal; it was about France’s choice. Both of them had already admitted to themselves that they were very nearly in love if not already there, but rather than choose the nation that had saved him, France had chosen the one that had murdered his people and kept him imprisoned. England’s pride kept him from asking _why_.

France met England’s eyes again, and the look in them could have broken him if he’d let it. “He _tried_ to kill me. He succeeded in saving my life. When…” he swallowed, had to bury a sudden wave of something, “…when they were discussing how to execute me, Gilbert said something that made Germany retract the sentence. I don’t even know if he meant to do it, but he did, and I… I couldn’t watch him die. I don’t love him anymore, England, not the way I did. But I remember it. I remember him, and I couldn’t watch.”

England was silent, shaking but silent.

“You can survive my lies. He wouldn’t have. England, I…” France paused, took a breath, and took a gamble. “If by end of these last two wars, you don’t understand what I feel for you, then perhaps we were already a lost cause. Everything I’ve risked to save Gilbert, I’ve risked for the sake of a love that’s barely a glimmer now. What do you think I’d be willing to risk for you?”

The force of the conflicting emotions making England’s body jolt, tighten his grip, take shallow breaths, rippled in his eyes like heat. More than anything, France wanted to kiss him. He didn’t.

And then the eyes closed.

“Three days,” England rasped.

Empty, disbelieving surprise. “What…?”

“Wherever you’ve sent him running to, he hasn’t run far enough. I’ll delay the search parties for three days.” England shoved him roughly backwards into his chair and let go. France took a moment to rub his aching neck. _Cursed_ uniform. “It’s the only concession I’ll make for you.” Their eyes remained riveted on each other’s faces for a few seconds more before England turned and began to walk towards the door, taking his air of reluctant chivalry and hurt pride- hurt _trust_ \- with him.

France watched him leave the room, and the only thought that wasn’t too painful for him to latch onto was that he’d be eating alone.

~~~

For the first time in his life, Prussia was quiet. He hadn't spoken since the dictation of his last words, nor had he expected to. A part of him feared that speech would jinx his escape, and he didn't want to do anything that might jeopardize his recall to life. Something about speaking felt like some wall he didn't want to cross because it would shine a spotlight on the fact he wasn't dead. If someone Upstairs had made a serious clerical error, he didn't want to bring it to their attention, and with a mouth like his, attention tended to happen. 

Fortunately, his rescuers weren't very talkative either. Who knew? Maybe they even felt the same way. Everything had been planned out to the finest detail; any decisions were exchanged with a series of short, concise sentences and monosyllables. Instead, they spent the time watching the countryside like they expected an ambush to present itself. Prussia spent much of their first day on the road running a hand over his chest, trying to find the bullet holes that had to be there. Dirty, dry, untattered cloth was the only thing his searching fingers were ever greeted with. Nobody in their west-bound party noticed, and if they did, they didn't mention it. 

They'd driven well into nightfall by the time they stopped. Prussia got the distinct feeling that they all wanted to keep going, but when reminded of the French border crossing in the morning, everyone acknowledged the necessity. Also, apparently this man's wife made the best bundt cake in the Rhineland. 

Prussia was shepherded into a room while the ringleader greeted a kind-looking elderly man and papers were exchanged. He didn't manage to thank the older woman for a cup of cold water, but the cool drink made him realize how parched he was. After he'd bathed (the first time in months with hot water), two young women living in the household darkened his hair with an odd concoction. They warned that it wouldn't last very long and would wash out if he showered... but it would get him where he was going. 

Just where was he going?

The thought struck him, foreign, intrusive, and he defiantly pressed the uncertainty back into blankness.

Afterwards, they all retreated to a wine cellar and laid down for sleep. Of course, one person would stay up with a rifle all night just in case of an Allied raid. Prussia didn't see much purpose in it, really. What were they going to do if they were attacked? Stage a heroic defense _from a cellar_? That sounded like a fucking punch line. One didn't need to be a soldier to know that there wouldn't be anything left of them but splatter marks on the walls by the end of _that_ fight. Whatever. He let them have their sense of security. 

Then Prussia attempted sleep, which turned out to be a bad idea. No matter how often he closed his eyes, all it did was give him time to think about the wall and the rifles and his impending doom. 

And France... staring emotionlessly back over the black barrel. 

He tried hardest not to think about France. 

Then he thought of how hard it had been to stay standing, face his death despite the screaming cries for survival echoing in his heart. _Don't wanna die. Don't wanna die. Don't wanna die. No escape. NO FUCKING ESCAPE!_  

Prussia didn't get any sleep his first night on a second chance. 

They left in the morning, used the papers to cross into France's lands, where they boarded a train and worked overly hard to keep to themselves. He'd managed to get a couple hours of sleep in the South of France, but the dreams had been fevered, as panicked and unreliable as the moments before his scheduled execution. They'd been shapeless lines, shifting and suffocating him as opposed to tangible nightmares. Until they'd crossed the Spanish border (again, with the faux papers), he suffered from unshakable anxiety. 

However, when the second car finally rolled to a stop on a gentle, gravel driveway... Prussia took a breath and felt his nervousness drift away with the dying twilight. 

A short, irritated Italian greeted them at the end of the drive. He stuck his head intrusively into the back window (if it wasn't for the relaxing effect the boy's former patron had on people, Romano would be have been riddled with bullets by six very edgy Germans). The Italian smirked at Prussia. "This is disappointing. I thought I'd never have to see you again, you fucking kraut-bastard. You're really a cockroach, aren't you?" 

For the first time in three days, Prussia found the strength to be angry with this annoying, insulting, disrespectful little brat. 

At this, Prussia felt his mouth twist into a grin that bordered on madness, stretched the physical limits of his capacity for expression. 

"Fuck you, twerp. Now where's Antonio?" 

True, he was filthy, half-mad, and half-dead. Less than 72 hours ago, he'd been plucked from the lip of his grave and whisked through hostile territory. 

But it felt so fucking _good_ to be alive.


	3. Chapter 3

" _Hey, France. I understand things have been quite stressful for you lately...just remember that my beach house is always open to friends."_   
    
Those were the words that Spain had spoken almost two weeks to the day. The ambiguity had been delightfully plain in intent.    
    
Antonio knew him too well, and never had France been happier for that fact.    
    
The balmy breeze picked up his hair, slapped the loose ends of his coat around his knees. It was a quiet sort of roar in his ears, which had grown used to the crack and boom of explosives. Spain's place was secluded, the flat expanse of sea and sand twisting, curving across the horizons. Something in the salty wind calmed France, even though the anxiety he'd suffered the entirety of the trip had seemed immobile. Beneath his boots, the ancient wood of the stairs thundered, making any sort of a stealthy approach unfeasible. That was fine. Prussia was probably not keen on being snuck up on and it was always best to make one's presence known when there were men with guns patrolling the perimeter.    
    
The sand sucked at shoes as he passed from stair to dune. France paused before adjusting to the change in terrain.    
    
Involuntarily, he thought of the sand coating the arena floor, then the dark, congealing red of bleeding humans and nations. For a moment, he was ill without knowing why.    
    
A white blotch near the deep blue of the water brighter than all the others drew his attention like a beacon.    
    
Against everything that had happened, France smiled. This was the first confirmation he had that Prussia was alive. Over the last couple of years, he'd been more the walking dead, deceased even if his body didn't know it yet. France had doubts about whether or not Prussia had been able to escape. It was part of the reason he'd come. He risked too much not to _see_ Prussia breathing.    
    
He approached until he could see Prussia's white hair, still a little gray in places from some sort of darkening agent. He was wearing one of Spain's button-up shirts and loose tanned pants, uncaring of the sand that blew into his face or the bright sun bearing down on him. All of a sudden, the world felt like vibrant whites and blues that were bright and brilliant in the sunlight.   
    
If he closed his eyes, he was sure the light would still be there.   
    
For all the time he’d spent turning the possibilities of their encounter over and over again in his head, France was at a loss. His mind went blank, his mouth dry, and he didn’t know whether he wanted to rush forward and embrace Prussia or cut his losses, be happy with his visual confirmation, and leave.   
    
Prussia made the decision for him, as he often did. He spoke, and it was as if France had caught him mid-conversation. The words were shaped like some sort of rebuttal, like Prussia was responding to something that had already been said.   
    
“I called Antonio a liar when he told me you were the one that saved me,” his voice was flat, swept aside by the wind. The unfastened sleeves of his shirt whipped around his pale arms. “I came pretty damn close to throwing my glass at his face.” Prussia’s head ducked slightly, shoulders shaking with a few beats of silent, nearly mad laughter as he looked out over the sea. “Bastard’s smile didn’t even flinch.”   
    
France’s hands fell loose in the pockets of his coat, and his eyes sank half-lidded in soft regret. “And do you believe him now?”   
    
It was as if hearing France’s voice had broken some sort of spell, somehow made their positions real.   
    
Prussia took a step back, angled his body towards France, face turning to finally _look_ at him. The eye contact was almost unbearable. There was too much in it, accusations and remorse, caution and defiance, vulnerability and mistrust, friendship and enmity, love and the inability to forgive. Both felt the need to look away; both did before they caught the weak movement in each other and glanced back.   
    
Red eyes studied France carefully, sweeping over his body, lingering on his face. A crooked, ill grin curved his mouth, and it made France’s breath still in his chest. “I believe you orchestrated it,” Prussia gave. “I believe Antonio’s either oblivious or suffering from wishful thinking for trusting that you did it out of loyalty.” And took away. “You’re too much of a coward to gamble your life for anything beyond personal gain.”   
    
“You know I’m not,” France countered evenly, and it was true.   
    
Prussia knew France too well to hold that opinion of him; he just didn’t want to accept the fact that France had been willing to save him despite Prussia’s actions towards him in the occupation, because if that was true, then… Prussia was the real traitor.   
    
“I don’t know you anymore,” Prussia spat out. “I haven’t known you since you looked me in the face and _sentenced me to die_.”   
    
France should have walked away then, realized he was arguing with an angry, unreasonable person and come back at a later date, but indignant fury rose at that statement. If he was going to be accused of dishonesty, he much preferred it to be something valid. “You wouldn’t be standing here if I hadn’t said that. England and America would have watched me. What was I supposed to do, Prussia? Why don’t you tell me what you would have preferred? As a matter of fact, why don’t you tell me how I could _possibly_ benefit selfishly?”   
    
Prussia took a threatening step forward, France saw his hand clench and unclench as if strangling fowl. “You could have stood up for me. My country was dissolved. I was in prison. In what _universe_ is that dangerous?! What about that justifies _murder_?!”   
    
“Now you know what it feels like.” It spilled out before France could stop himself, and he immediately regretted saying it.    
    
Twisted anger came with a blow aimed at France’s head. France raised a hand, catching the other man’s wrist before the fist could land. He was not back at full strength yet. Still, Prussia felt weak as a fitful child in comparison. “Don’t you _dare_ say the two situations are comparable. Maybe,” Prussia’s voice lowered to a whisper and he brought his face closer to France’s, pulling at the limb still trapped in the latter’s grip, “if I had let Ludwig kill you, we wouldn’t have lost the fucking war.”   
    
It was like a verbal slap in the face. France recoiled like he’d been stricken. Without being fully aware of his own returning strength, he felt Prussia’s wrist swell under pressure and a brief expression of pain crossed the other man’s face. A part of him knew that Prussia was just challenging his salvation to be hurtful; the more conscious part told him it was working.   
    
The bones of the former nation’s wrist crackled, dragged against each other as Prussia hissed closer once more, a distance that years ago would have ended in a kiss. “I might have forfeited my life, the life of my brother, and my country because of a moment’s weakness for _you._ All you’ve done is possibly sabotage your relationship with…” His mouth warped into a smirk, and the red stare darkened. “England? America? Who is it you’re chasing after nowadays?”   
    
France’s face hardened, eyes heated and daring, and he was shaking, but he didn’t know if it was from anger or injured disbelief. Memories of the man in front of him thrashed in his thoughts, and it seemed impossible that Prussia, _Gilbert_ could misunderstand his motives so completely. And yet… during the occupation, hadn’t France seen a monster in Prussia’s face? Seen it, despite how he used to swear he knew him as well as he knew himself. He’d brushed a finger over Prussia’s smile, and in their naïve youth promised that their lives as nations couldn’t touch them.   
    
No, that was the wrong lie for France to remember. Because, however sincere it had been at the time, Prussia was now rendering it a lie.   
    
And the tragic thing was, France, the liar, had never intended for it to be.   
    
“I watched you laugh at the thought of executing me.” It was spoken softly, a wisp of breath that was out of touch with their trembling, agitated bodies.   
    
Prussia stopped pulling against the grip on his wrist, but his muscles remained tensed.   
    
“I watched you laugh as if I was a spectacle, a display. You say I sentenced you to die…” France’s voice was stronger now, and suddenly he wasn’t flinching away anymore. He turned his face upwards to meet Prussia’s eyes fully. “…But did I ever, _ever_ look like I enjoyed it? Did I look eager, like I wanted it? What if someone hadn’t mentioned the guillotine, Prussia? Would you have let them kill me? _Did I look like I wanted you to die?_ ”   
    
Prussia was silent, as if he couldn’t remember what he’d been trying to say. Then, “No. You looked like you didn’t care.”    
    
“Forgive me if neutrality was the only emotion I could muster.” France, realizing how tight his hold was, tossed Prussia aside hard enough to make the other nation stumble and fall in a spray of particulates. France didn’t know if he did that out of antipathy or because he didn’t want to hurt him. “Answer my question.”   
    
Prussia’s breathing increased a couple notches and it was not a result of his tumble; his eyes were too wide for the hot rage France had seen before to be present. “Which one?”  He looked like he already knew.   
    
France’s voice was firm. This was not the time nor place to ask this, he was well aware…but it was something he needed. “Would you have let them kill me?”   
    
Damning in silence, Prussia picked himself up from the dust and clamped his mouth down firmly. There was something truly bothering about his silence; it meant he was thinking, it meant that France wouldn’t be able to trust anything he said as indisputable proof. In a stupid rush of hurt, France turned his back to Prussia, who could very easily jump him from behind (it didn’t matter how strong a nation was, break their neck and they were incapacitated).   
    
He shook his head while Prussia dusted himself off. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. This had been a horrible idea. When France spoke again, his voice was firm but emotionless. “I could tell them.” He faced Prussia again, challenging him with this truth, as if daring him to say something else that stabbed and twisted. “It would be easy for me to do what you did to me. You realize that?”    
    
Whatever Prussia was feeling at that moment, his face froze in place and it was replaced with the pallor of fear. “You wouldn’t…”   
    
“I could.”   
    
An uneasy, forced smile came. “What about your relationship with what’s-his-name? I know you have one.”   
    
“Oh,” France snubbed and tilted his chin upwards arrogantly, “Who do you think he’ll believe, you or me? Although you’ve forgotten the kind of person I am, you must remember how persuasive I can be.”   
    
Prussia had no denial, no evidence to support his statement. He just looked like he was filled with dread and he was trying to fight it back, like a child who had broken one too many rules and people had stopped giving him second chances.   
    
It would be _so easy_ to rescind that second chance. They both knew that all it would take was a phone call. A line between Spain and Germany was all that stood between Prussia and another wall. This time holding the knowledge that he’d alienated all possible sources of deliverance.   
    
But it _wouldn’t be easy_ , would it? France swallowed the dryness in his throat (or was that a suffocating lump) and forced himself to stare at the sea and the caterwaul of the gulls soaring somewhere overhead. He cleared his thoughts as his head tipped skyward and into the breeze. “You’re right,” he said, “I can’t.” He didn’t know what Gilbert would make of that statement; surely manipulation and cowardice were primary explanations… that didn’t mean France needed to stay around to hear them. All he knew was that it was in earnest, and if he was going to destroy another centuries-long relationship during the course of the week, he wanted to go out saying what he needed to say.   
    
France turned to leave.   
    
“No.”   
    
Prussia whispered the single word, and France stopped.   
    
Prussia’s voice never got very loud, and it was muffled by the fact he wasn’t talking to France, instead speaking into the horizon. He paused occasionally as he organized his words, and France allowed him to speak, mostly because he was so desperate to hear what he was saying. “I wouldn’t have let them kill you. Shit, man. You have to… _know that_. I was mad.” Whether Prussia was referencing lunacy or anger was left unsaid. “You struck a nerve and I got a little crazy. I convinced myself that it would be better for Germany if I killed you. But damned if I’m so _good and pure_ that I couldn’t lie to myself. Then, once I’d gotten the ball rolling it was…too late to stop. You were tied up in front of me and they were going to kill you before I knew what was happening. I was afraid of losing what authority I had left and…fuck, as soon as Ludwig stopped listening to me, I knew it would all be over. So I did shit- _bad_ shit right alongside him and made it fun because that was the only thing I could do, because laughing in the face of atrocity was what I used to be _good_ at and Ludwig needed me like he needed Italy. But that _insane mother fucker_ -” not referencing Germany, France would assume “-made a war that had no honor.” When France again turned, he met Gilbert’s eyes, bent and traumatized without breaking. “What use am I in a war without honor?”   
    
France could feel his pulse in his throat, inhibiting speech, inhibiting _thought_. He was completely still, and yet he felt as though he were shaking out of his skin, as if everything was a hissing rush of static. “You’re…” he tried, swallowed, tried again. “You’re as good as your resolve to change it.”   
    
“ _Christ, France_ ,” he nearly shouted. “Do you have any idea what I… do you know how much…” Prussia’s shoulders went slack and a sudden vulnerability had crept into his voice. His fists were clenched uselessly at his sides, guarded against nothing. “I was too much of a coward to try and talk Ludwig back to reason when it started, and I’m too weak to stand up for him now that… everything’s _over_.” That one word, _over_ , seemed to apply to far more than just the war. “I let him… and if there was something, something I _could_ change, I… Fuck, don’t you think I would? Don’t you think I’d have busted you from that room, and locked Ludwig in a basement with Italy somewhere where he couldn’t… he couldn’t’…” They were the loosely strung together words of someone who was too desperate, who couldn’t hold onto just one thought.   
    
And France couldn’t listen anymore, couldn’t watch him and just stand there.   
    
He walked forward slowly, cautiously, as if approaching an animal with its leg caught and marred in a trap. He hated that his mind couldn’t fathom whether he was approaching a friend or a stranger. So much of this was familiar, and Prussia looked the same way he’d looked for decades. It was the hollowness in his face, the almost human frailty that came when the strength of a nation was stripped away, that made it so different. It was that, and it was the flashes of memory of his mouth stretched wide in a sneer, of the still-present mad haze in his eyes.   
    
Prussia observed his movement with wary trepidation, tensing as if ready to run or fight. “What are you…”   
    
“Don’t,” France stopped him. As far as he was concerned, the only thing more talking could possibly do right now was tempt them to each other’s throats.   
    
There was a still a foot of empty space between them when France came to a halt. Reaching out slowly, haltingly, the tips of his fingers found Prussia’s fist and pried it gently open.   
    
That touch, that single, innocent, innocuous touch, broke them.   
    
Prussia choked out a breath that was half growl and yanked France forward into his chest. His feet snagged in the sand, kicked up dirt that clung to Prussia’s slacks where they’d been caught in the tide. The former nation’s arms latched around him, crushing France to his body like a lifeline. Prussia’s face was buried in the curve of France’s neck and shoulder, and France knew that it was because he couldn’t look France in the eyes like this as much it was from whatever emotion had spurred him this far. France looked up at the horizon, eyes wide, trying to comprehend the shudders running through Prussia, the frantic grip of the hands tangling at his sides. Prussia was crumbling, and it was terrifying because Prussia was supposed to be the brave one, the one who met trials with reckless abandon, who flashed a grin and never broke. But he _was_ breaking, and how much of it was both their faults? France bowed his head, and his own hands rose to smooth over Prussia’s back and rest over his shoulder blades. He pulled his friend into him, because _of course_ that was what they were. That’s why they were here in the first place, why they were both still alive, why France could hold Prussia like this after all he’d done and still…   
    
“ _Why_ , France? _Why the fuck_ didn’t you just leave me?” Prussia’s demand was muffled into his shoulder.   
    
France smiled weakly, eyes falling closed.   
    
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.   
    
Without the ones he loved, a hopeless romantic was only hopeless; a man like France would never survive in that condition.   
    
~~~   
    
France called ahead to England from a phone at the train station in Paris. He dialed the number that would take him through to the other nation’s office without needing to needle through the questions of military operators; always a hazardous minefield for those with sensitive information.   
    
Following a dull electric pop and the sound of a receiver being juggled midst armloads of paperwork, England eventually answered with a curt, “Yes?”   
    
France’s mouth was dry, but he was not suffering from the dark fear and unsteadiness that had foreshadowed his conversation with Prussia. The gloved hand clutching the black texture of the phone was sweating and shaking with the effort of what he was about to do. At the same time, he felt charged with energy born from the fact that he’d begun to repair his relationship with Prussia- hurting, angry, Prussia that had tortured and humiliated him, and to whom he had done the same (however noble his ultimate goal). He could fix the wounds England’s trust suffered earlier that week.   
    
Initially, his meeting with Prussia had ended with a sort of climax in the numb, bittersweet wanderings that marveled their survival. It was a feeling that came from continued existence against insurmountable odds. One only ever looked to that light at the end of the tunnel, and then when they finally emerged the future seemed blinding.    
    
Things would not be what they once were. For a long time, France knew he would need to watch his words around the former nation, and Prussia would offer him the same courtesy. There might be a fight or two over injuries that were still terrible and fresh.   
    
There was still the issue of finding Prussia a new nation to call his own…or integrate him with Germany when the chaos died down (he’d even pondered whether Gilbert could replace Ludwig in the event of the younger brother’s… _untimely_ death but had quickly squished the traitorous thought with his few remaining morals), much as the Italian twins existed as a unified nation. France didn’t know if Gilbert’s immortality could be secured without a people or land. Whatever the side effects, it was painfully obvious it could not be avoided forever.   
    
But they were on the right track.   
Now he only wished to say the same for himself and England.   
    
“Arthur,” he began, “please don’t hang up.” He paused, wetted his lips, and hoped the use of England’s human name would help him forget he was mad for just a moment. “I want to make this right- not the thing with _him_. That is done. I’m talking about _us_. It does not serve to have your cold shoulder so soon after our alliance, and you know the wrong foot is never a good place to begin. Please, meet me on Saturday after I return, and we can talk about…” He allowed a beat. “…The future.”   
    
England stayed quiet for a long time, then, stiffly, “What time?”   
    
France told him, then added, “In my office.”   
    
~~~   
    
France couldn’t walk fast enough, heavy boots slamming into the wood as he made an optimistic trip down the hall of the envoy’s headquarters. For the first time in years, everything was going well. There was the snaking doubt constricting his heart, making his head spin at the thought that England would be as unforgiving as he had been in the past. France had no desire to wait until the next World War to be on speaking terms with the other, more eyebrow-endowed man.   
    
He threw open the door to his office and prepared to say something dashing.   
    
Only England wasn’t there.   
    
Frosted, lavender eyes studied him from behind his own desk. One of Russia’s hands was stretched downwards, lightly tracing the surface of the wood like he had nothing better to do than memorize the grain even as he stared into France. Even behind the effervescent smile France saw traces of something old and predatory. It wasn’t the rabid-dog look and reckless abandon held by Prussia, rather a beast that could stare into one’s soul and rip out the most vulnerable point. A man that could wait.   
    
“Where’s England?” France asked evenly, hoping he’d just caught Russia at a bad time and he’d snap out of whatever lunacy he was lost in. There was always the chance that Russia’s mood had _absolutely nothing_ to do with him.   
    
But he rather doubted he was that lucky.   
    
Russia’s grin opened to show teeth. “You must remember when your queen said ’Let them eat cake’, _da_? But you’re having your cake and eating it too. Even in love, you follow the capitalist agenda where you can just take all you want. But you leave them all starved and thirsty, for you are unable to give anything in return…” The slow, meandering speech focused in time to Russia’s eyes. Lilac narrowed with new, frightening intelligence that had been hidden by deranged ramblings. “I know what you’ve done, Comrade Traitor.”   
    
Terror knifed through France’s stomach. He was sure Russia’s words would have been less painful accompanied by a hail of machine gun fire.   
    
He did the only thing he could do, used the only defense mechanism he had.   
    
France _smiled_ , dashing and gorgeous in the hope that Russia would be less likely to smash his face inwards after he saw how lovely it could be. Not that that had ever worked on England or Prussia, but perhaps someday…   
    
Then he turned and ran for his life.


	4. Chapter 4

France didn’t call out for any of his delegates that might have been secluded somewhere in the house. There was nothing they could have done, and as the sound of his hurried footsteps pounded against the wood floors, he knew that to add his voice to the sound would have only succeeded in needlessly alarming them. Humans played against humans, and in that way, the nations could fight; it was when nations found themselves face to face that humans had no place. He was down the steep, uneven stairs without ever looking over his shoulder to see how closely Russia was following.   
  
Because he knew Russia _would_ follow. The only question was at what pace.   
  
Garbled, overlapping voices slapped against him as he wrenched the door open and stumbled out into the street. There was still a great number of people in the town that had yet to leave after the botched execution. They milled around as though they expected the conditions in the place to be somehow better than the ones they had left. France was thankful for their delusions; it was giving him cover as he slipped amongst the crowd.  
  
There weren’t enough bodies to really conceal him, but perhaps there were enough shades of blue to divert Russia’s eyes. France wasn’t sufficiently foolish to continue running; he slowed to an inconspicuous walk, taking the first right turn that he could. If Russia hadn’t made it outside during that time, he might have a chance. If he’d been looking…   
  
France shook the thought from his mind, but could do nothing to displace the pulsing, _demanding_ panic that crackled in his ears and told him all was lost. Prussia’s salvation, England’s willingness to temporarily divert his eyes, all might be in vain if it was in Russia’s desire to divulge them now.   
  
It might all be pointless.   
  
And wasn’t it so pointless that he was even running? Running would not convince Russia to stay silent, running could not change the eventuality of their confrontation, running could not take him far enough away from what he’d done, and yet France still ran. Perhaps he only did so because he was good at it… better at it that he would have been at staying in that room, looking at those unfathomable eyes, and meeting the clash that would surely follow.   
  
He ducked into a back alley, separated himself from the naked protection that the crowd offered. Pressing his back against the grime-covered bricks, he breathed once, twice before daring a glance over his shoulder.   
  
People. All he saw was a human clot, some Allied soldiers stationed in the region, and people flocking to receive rations. No tall, disgruntled nations. France tried to reign in his nerves- they could not be shattered, he _could_ not afford to have the foundation of his resolve broken when he was _so close_. The cynic within told him he had failed, dug its bitter claws into his stomach and _twisted_. He forced his eyes to shut, envisioned the fear being pressed aside like brambles in his mind while he searched for the key.   
  
France pondered the frantic months spent with the Resistance, when circumstances had kept him too busy for true, crippling fear, instead forcing him to soldier through one emergency after another. Now he had time for fear, now was when he needed to shove it asunder. What had been the key to his survival in those chaotic times? Combat and sabotage had been valuable, but neither would have been possible without a steady tide of non-combative operatives feeding and receiving Allied information. The Resistance had been a learning organism; she had evolved, changed and adapted as the situation morphed around her. In the end, this had won them Paris, changed the tide of the war.   
  
And France realized a simple hope.   
  
Communication. Communication was essential for any mission to be successful. It had been his saving grace once, and so it would be again.  
  
Yes… if he could find a phone, then the day could still be his. The risk of revealing Prussia’s location was paled by the risk of not warning them. If he could get in touch with Antonio, the two of them could flee to former Spanish colonies in South America while the Prussian loyalists worked to hinder the manhunt. Yes. France knew the odds were stacked against them, that his role would be exposed and he would be humiliated no matter the outcome, England would be politically forced to distance himself from _the traitor_ , but time in prison or social exile would be tolerable knowing victory had -in the end- been his… and _theirs_.   
  
Besides.   
  
France didn’t think he could have forgiven himself for surrendering a second time.  
  
A burgeoning sense of purpose clamped down on his fear and compressed it into a breath that France hissed past his lips as he pushed off from the wall and propelled himself forward. A phone. He just needed to find a building with a phone, someplace public enough for Russia to hesitate to corner him. Whether it was full of the masking white noise of human chatter or had a private desk he could commandeer for the moment, France didn’t care, so long as Russia’s attention and the attention of any surrounding citizens could be diverted.  
  
All at once, France glanced up and remembered the courthouse. It was one of the few buildings with more than two floors, and the point of its roof jutted out like the spire of a church in the bright afternoon sky. A shadowed brown, nearly black, against a vivid blue.  
  
Something raw, hot, and abrasive shot up through his chest and nested in his throat. It was in a side room of that courthouse that Prussia had been bound and damned in front of him while France sat safe, _victorious_ , and had lied through his teeth. France had walked beneath the heavy wooden arch of the building, knowing he intended to betray in order to save. Now he was going back to do it once again, and this time he didn’t feel even a phantom of the remorse he’d felt on that day.   
  
But of course he didn’t.   
  
Seeing the face of a friend snatched from death, trusting that the man he loved would give him a chance for redemption, and suspecting that somewhere in the crowd an enemy was stalking closer… all simply did _wonders_ for a man’s conscience.  
  
He surged back into the crowd without hesitation, leaving its narrow sanctuary to flawlessly melt into the surrounding mass. The tide of bodies would push him to the courthouse’s front steps with little effort on his part. All he had to do was look common and harmless. Granted, these were two qualities far from the truth of France’s character, but if there was a single lesson shared between all nations, it was how to fade into the background in times when being at the forefront was perilous.  
  
With a slight bow and tilt of his head, he discreetly scanned the street behind him.   
  
It didn’t matter that there was more than one blonde in the crowd, that there was more than one whose height matched, that there was more than one shielded by a scarf; France glanced back and caught Russia’s quiet smile and empty stare before he could even take his next step.   
  
Thirty yards separated the two nations. Thirty yards choked with Germany’s children and Allied soldiers.   
  
It might as well have been an inch.   
  
It might as well have been a coffin.  
  
Everything in France screamed for him to make a dead run to the courthouse, not look back and take the gambit that he wouldn't be stopped by clusters of people, the authorities, or trip over any small children. But France knew a losing bet when he saw one, and instead remembered that Russia was in the same boat.  
  
Russia would not wish to cause any political trouble for his boss; harassing another nation with so many witnesses would qualify as political trouble. And due to his immense strength, Russia would not enter melee with so many people in such a cramped space, there was far too much risk that he would misjudge his strength and crush in a human skull by accident- not as easily repaired as a strong, independent nation. What was a prison for France also bound Russia to the same rules. Hail the stars for universally recognized public civility.  
  
So, France let out a breath and turned away from the steady, encroaching hand of retribution. Instead of crushing his way through like a tank, France forced himself to move between people, slip around and through the gaps to put as much human shielding between him and his pursuer as possible.  
  
Every so often, he would twirl to try and follow Russia's progress...but the brief glimpses were unreliable at best.  
  
When he made it to the great marble steps and blew past the security detail, they were well familiarized with his face. "Sorry, gentleman. I'm late," he said with a smile and a half-salute.  
  
He needed to move fast now.  
  
Marble gave way to carpet underneath his feet as the obligatory quiet of the building dropped the volume low enough for France to hear his heart pounding in his ears, feel it in his throat. He used it like a war drum, letting it march him foreword at a healthy pace and duck through a door to the side as a clerk came out, too focused on his papers and military-issue coffee. Another glance over his shoulder showed no sign of Russia.   
  
Something about that wasn't right.   
  
France stopped on the other side of the door, watching the large doorway with his forearm creating a gap between wall and door, a crack only big enough to spy through. Minutes passed without Russia’s appearance, and France's heart rate increased dramatically. Unless _he already knew where France was_ , Russia would have followed.   
  
France very much felt like he was a fox being hounded by a particularly clever dog, being shepherded into a corner. Russia was brilliant in his madness; people who underestimated him paid for it dearly. Napoleon had made the mistake, as had Hitler. The Russians were a hardy people, and their nation had seen eons they couldn't imagine, eras of blood and war and brutality that even the most unfortunate only suffered for a single lifetime. What scared France was that there didn't seem to be any _method_ to it. If it weren't for the fact that his dealings with Russia had always been more akin to an Edgar Allen Poe story than a battle of wits, France would have been confident in his ability to outsmart his opponent.   
  
The scary thing was that Russia knew why he'd entered the courthouse and was planning to intercept him at some other unfortunate time, implying that Russia knew what he aimed to do there: contact Antonio and Gilbert and tell them it was time to run.   
  
He snapped out of his daze to notice a young woman watching his hallway contemplation, the look on her face strongly implying he'd grown a second head. He smiled, and said in fluent German, "Excuse me, miss, could you be so kind as to make sure this message-" he grabbed her pen and scribbled his words and the number onto a manila file in her arms "-gets to an associate of mine in Spain? It's very important? Tell whoever it is you commandeer a phone from Francis Bonnefoy sent you."   
  
She recognized the name, eyes widening and giving a quick nod before shuffling away.   
  
True, this was the biggest risk he'd taken yet, but now all France needed to do was find Russia and be distracting.  
  
Russia wouldn’t expect him to take the matter out of his own hands. That much France was sure of. Russia would be under the impression that France was either too suspicious or too vain to leave anyone else to the task. If Russia had believed otherwise, he wouldn’t have given France the time to act. There was something that Russia hadn’t contemplated, however. No matter what France’s character was under normal circumstances, he was a man that could change it at once to ensure the safety of his friends. If Russia truly wanted to play so badly, then France would play… and while they played, his friends would be running far from their enemies’ reach.  
  
France wet his lips, swallowed, and walked in the opposite direction of the woman, towards a door against the far wall.  
  
Opening it carefully, cautiously, he stepped through. There was a second hallway, narrower than the broad corridor in the entrance area. It was a service hall, windows on one side, a line of doors trailing down the other. France brought his hand up and pulled at his collar. His fear for his friends was only slightly alleviated by his rebellion, and fear for himself had only intensified. His throat felt tight; in contrast, his mind sharpened, became clearer.  
  
He took steps forward with purpose and passed the first three doors before choosing the fourth at random. The door handle was cold in his hand as he gripped it and pushed. It swung open slowly despite there being no carpet for it to catch on. Beyond, the light was warm but dim. Rows of bookcases stretched in front of him, tapering off to rows of file cabinets the closer one got to the opposite door.  
  
“Records room,” France decided in a low murmur.  
  
At first scan, the room seemed to be empty. France turned to leave.  
  
Then the scraping sound of a book sliding slowly from its place and hitting the floor rooted him in the doorway. A brief, breathless note of a sing-song hum accompanied it.  
  
Renewed silence followed.  
  
France was frozen, eyes wide, a soft sort of shaking beginning at his fingertips. Then, in appearance if nothing else, he regained his composure. “Russia…?” he asked the room at large.  
  
Whatever book had fallen was kicked out into the center aisle, far in front of France. It spun before coming to a stop in the empty space.  
  
No other answer was given.  
  
He could run; France knew he could run, and Russia would give chase, and it would still achieve its purpose… but France felt a surge of defiance in that moment, a great want to show how difficult a man he was to terrorize, to manipulate. If Russia wanted to face France the coward, he’d chosen the wrong circumstances.  
  
His jaw set as he stepped over the threshold and leaned back on the door, forcing it to click shut. Hands gripping the opposite wrists, he took a few breaths to calm himself and get his bearings, eyes never leaving the book. He’d heard no movement. Was Russia still at the same aisle?   
  
Rather than approach the book, France turned immediately right, in the direction the book hadn’t been kicked from. Defiance or not, he wasn’t fool enough to fall prey to the lure of bait. The bookcase at his side extended nearly to the ceiling, and when he reached the corner of the room, he could see nothing but a ‘v’ of the path he’d just come down and the one directly in front of him.  
  
With a burgeoning sense of apprehension, he began to walk forward.  
  
He pressed his back against the flat end of the first shelf, then slid to a crouch and glanced quickly to the left. The alignment of the bookshelves gave him a clear view to the other side of the room; anything organic standing between them would be visible, but Russia would probably be hidden from a direct line of sight.  
  
Keeping his senses open for any noise, France scurried past two shelves and came to rest next to the third, his heart pounding unfathomably loud in his ears. Hearing any sort of approach seemed impossible, but the precariousness of his situation raised the blood to a dull roar in his ears that he could not control.  
  
A gun would have been nice.  
  
The service pistol he’d carried with him throughout the war, nestled secretly in the deep pockets of his coat, was his favorite gun. The thing had served him well and saved his life several times during the tedious days of the Battle of France.   
  
Yes. The gun was indeed a fantastic weapon when he was in need of one.  
  
France let his head tap the surface behind him, barely restraining himself from the very unsophisticated, unconfident action of banging his head against it.  
  
It was a fine weapon unless it had been left on its owner’s bedroom dresser before said owner had traveled to Spain because he didn't want to worry about the risk at security posts. France hadn't bothered to return to his room in the city and pick it up. Retrospectively, he really wished he had something to slow Russia down.  
  
Suddenly, a minute sound- similar to leather gloves tapping on the backs of books, or so was the immediate image in France's head- reverberated through the room. France stiffened and struggled to place it, closing his eyes as he made an effort to pinpoint the source. The acoustics in the records room were painfully ironic, redistributing even the tiniest noises to hide origin point. It was the kind of room that made it impossible to hear your own thoughts in. Even as he struggled through the confusion, France knew it was moving.  
  
But _where_?  
  
"France~" Russia's voice rang outwards, sociopathic in its deceptive childishness. France flinched when he heard it, waited a long moment to see if Russia would appear on either row to his left or right, meanwhile, his heart threatened to quit while his stomach promised mutiny. "Do you know what I like, France?" So accursedly _echoey_ , but it sounded too close. "Hunting. A flutter in the bushes and the slice of an arrow has always been music to me, and I admire the deer that leap so high after they're already dead. There's something sweet in the eyes of a wounded doe, like she's begging you to finish her don't you think? I always thought she didn't want to die, but that a slow death was simply insulting. But even as a child, I never mourned for long because she became a part of something greater in her sacrifice. It was nature that she succumbed to; that flow of time."  
  
France did not care to be the deer in that analogy... but the clamminess in his skin told him that he was. Dread slipped through his immediate concerns, reminded him that no matter how this ended, he would be ruined socially. He'd sided with the enemy. Were he a human, he would be joining Prussia against the wall; his own punishment was only a matter of time now, whether at Russia's hands now or later by a haphazard tribunal.  
  
Realizing he was being lured into despair, France shook his head rapidly from side to side to clear it.  
  
Flushing a deer out of hiding was one of the main techniques for trapping quarry. Sense cut through the alarm at his own future long enough to remind him that Russia was trying to force him to sprint out of hiding.  
  
Or perhaps Russia knew he would react that way. There were not many hiding spots among the records. More than likely, Russia was trying to petrify him and keep him in one place while he surveyed the room.   
  
France's breath was coming out in strained hisses through his nose. It was one or the other, wasn't it?  
  
He eased onto his feet, back still to the shelf. His perception shifted. No matter the outcome, his standing in the world could not be salvaged. What was there to lose? His friends were running, and Russia could not possibly kill him. No matter the ending, in their own way, he and his friends had triumphed, had kept each other alive. France took a silent steadying breath, and his jaw clenched. He’d had his fair share of mad orators; Russia’s words would not undo him.  
  
On the contrary… if Russia’s voice could not be pinpointed, then neither could his own. “Better to succumb to the flow of time than to insanity,” France responded, late, but with the taunting tone he’d been aiming for.  
  
There was a good-humored hum of acknowledgement. “They are one and the same for our kind, I believe…”  
  
They happened all at once, the little sparks of awareness that sent France rushing into motion. There was a scratch at the binding of a book somewhere along the row to his right, a light in the ceiling buzzed and brightened, and in that light France realized that the fourth shelf to his left wasn’t made from metal, but of thin, shabby wood.  
  
Thin, shabby wood of what was probably a much lighter weight.  
  
France lunged to the left, footsteps quieter than what he’d expected them to be. It was of no help to him, however; he heard the sound of answering movement behind, heard Russia’s slow, no longer masked steps along that aisle. The other nation was playing, purposefully drawing the situation out. He truly believed France was trapped; he believed France was too afraid to maneuver, to think. Certainly that had oscillated between true and false ever since he’d first run out into the streets, but at the moment he was rooted firmly in the realm of defiance.  
  
He tried to push thoughts of Russia from his mind as he passed the bindings of books, tried to concentrate instead on building up the strength he would need. It should have been nothing, but after the war, very few feats were truly _nothing_. Halfway down the aisle made by the wooden bookshelf, France came to a stop. He looked up, gauging its height. He smiled. “Forgive me, mon ami, but I’ve never been one for being hunted.” His shaking subsided completely as he threw all of his weight against the structure.  
  
It creaked, inched forward, tottered, and _fell_.  
  
Wood splintered and metal screeched as the shelf hit the one in front of it, and the shelves dominoed forward until they struck the opposite wall, cracking the plaster. Books clattered to the floor, a heavy ledger caught France's brow and cheek as it stumbled off the shelf, loose leafs of paper catching in the air, spiraling as they drifted downwards. The volume of it was jarring, and shouts could be heard from other rooms in the courthouse as people heard the clamor.  
  
But _Russia_ hadn’t shouted, hadn’t called out. France edged back to slouch against the shelf behind him. There was no sign of the other nation, no sound. His heart was pounding in his chest as he tried to do away with the adrenalin commanding him either to run or find something more to fight. When there was no more movement, no more noise save for that of officials in the building calling out to each other, France gave a nervous but relieved laugh.  
  
The laugh died in his throat when an arm snaked through the shelf behind him and latched around his waist, a cold hand gently tucking a strand of his hair behind his ear. “Almost,” Russia commended. “But not quite.”   
  
France was frozen in place.  
  
“I know what you did…” He could hear the smile in that voice. “And I have a proposition for you.”


	5. Chapter 5

France believed that all of them had had better days- better years and better decades for that matter. He sat in his chair at Spain’s table like he imagined Marc Anthony sat at the Triumvirate. They’d been at the top of the world once, brandished their sabers then roared with the voice of thousands, but now it was hard to maintain the rhetoric when his very bones were tired and his throat felt like someone had poured gravel down it to be collected like a weight in his stomach. As his explanation of Russia’s offer came to a close, France breathed, sat back into the chair like it was the only rest he’d had in…far too long.   
  
The moment this was over, the very second he’d finished his job here, he planned to spend the rest of the century on the Coast of Marseilles. He would take no phone calls. He would deal with no official business. He wanted to see absolutely nothing of his own kind, just as England would now have nothing to do with him. Well-deserved relaxation with good wine and beautiful youths was a fair price. Surely he’d suffered his fair share? Who could be expected to be crushed between such horrible ultimatums and come out the other side ready to face the bipolar world that Russia prophesized?   
  
But for now, he had to deal with the inevitable accusations getting ready to spill from Prussia. Red eyes were already flashing with something kin to cornered mania.   
  
“So…” Prussia began, his voice cracking, the cigarette lit halfway through France’s story betraying the wobble in his lips. “You’re handing me over to him?”   
  
“Gilbert-“ Spain said gently.   
  
Prussia whirled on him. “Don’t you ‘Gilbert’ me. I think I have a right to know why _France_..." he whipped his neck up to glare pointedly at the blond across from him, "...wants to hand me right back to the very same Allies that wanted to put my head on a fucking pike.”   
  
France had expected this and was prepared to meet Prussia’s fears. “Russia has more to gain by keeping you alive. A division is coming, Prussia.” He spread his arms, motioning to the West-across the Atlantic where the sun shone on the self proclaimed land of the free- and to the East – in the general direction of the Soviet Union.   
  
It was a struggle to keep his voice even, reasonable, detached in the face of what he was suggesting. “Look at the two countries that are strong right now. Russia does not mean to surrender the territory he gained when displacing you and your _darling_ brother from Eastern Europe; a fool could see it. I do not think that our dear, easily paranoid America will be anxious to share the world with a communist Russia.” He paused to let the gravity sink in. “And Russia will not stop, just as America will support Western Europe in staying Soviet free. A bipolar world is being created, and my hope is that you will be protected from the other Allies behind that coming Iron Curtain.”   
  
Prussia laughed half-heartedly. Disbelief was evident in his hunched, shaking shoulders. “Why does he need me?” Prussia asked as if dreading the answer.   
  
Lifting the elegant wine glass in his left hand, France took a moment to consider his words. “He has no intention of letting East Germany return to a capitalist government. His hope is that the people will be better controlled if they have a bond with a national entity.”   
  
"You'll have your immortality back," Spain added softly.   
  
Prussia’s rebuttal was toxic and treated like absolute fact. “I’ll be a living tool for the torture of my people, the eventual subjugation of my brother, and stay in the same house as several nations that are _not_ my biggest fans right now.” The grin widened. “No. Fuck that.”   
  
"You're forgetting the possibility that Russia and America could go to war," France added then let his eyes dip momentarily. “The decision is yours. I cannot force you to do something like this.”   
  
Because they both knew it would not be the freedom Prussia had come to wish for since his rescue. Knowing the path he suggested was hideous...and yet understanding that it was also _the only way_ was dreadful for the Frenchman.   
  
“ _You’ve made it clear that I don’t have any choice!_ ” Prussia roared and bright red rage flashed across his face. The muscles of his body tensed and brought him halfway out of his chair, forcing the smallest squeal of wood on wood. He looked inclined to violence, like he meant to leap across the table at any moment. For once, France didn't take it personally, and held his ground against his friend like he always had. Prussia was raging against the situation more than anything, and he’d always been the type to shoot the messenger.   
  
Prussia went taut. France lifted his glass for a sip.   
  
“ _Amigo_ ,” Spain said smoothly, calmly; Spain could diffuse explosive situations with the sheer force of his calm. “France has been nothing but a friend to you these last few days. I don’t remember him putting a gun to your head and saying 'go play nice with Russia, or else'.”   
  
The white-haired man sputtered, indicating that the offense was obvious. “He tells me that Russia is booking me a suite at _Chateau Soviet_ , how awful it will be, and then has the balls to say that if I don’t do it, I’ll die in 50 years. _How is that a choice_ to someone who just got their life back?”   
  
France paused and softened. "Running is an option, _cher._ Living free until your last breath and taking your chances with the authorities- I'm sure you'd have no problem evading them - is another path. Run to the ends of the Earth and spend the rest of your days living your life as it is, as long as you can. Free of a nation's responsibilities? Free of war and famine? Obligations? You _have_ an option." He hated the idea, of course. The thought of his friend choosing death after everything they'd been through was like some cruel, cruel joke.   
  
For a moment that threatened to snap him in two, Prussia looked like he was considering it.   
  
Then his eyes got wide, latent fear blanching his skin, like he was remembering what it _really felt like_ to be faced with death.   
  
"Until I disappear," he stated in a small voice. All of a sudden, he looked very frail- that same human weakness that now seemed to stalk his every movement. He sank back into his seat. Twisting in his chair, he rested his head in his hand with the figure of a man who couldn't find the strength to hold it anymore. Hopeless. Afraid. He made a sound that both France and Spain would later claim was a laugh, even if the slight shine to his eyes proved the contrary. Their friend tried to shake it all off with a scoff and a smirk like he always did, and they let him.   
  
\----   
  
Prussia sat rigidly in the backseat of the car and remembered a drive a few days ago that had made him feel nearly the same raw fear and uncertainty. The maw of something dark and deep and hungry was opening in his chest, ready to clamp down and _tear._ It was familiar, but fuck, he wished it weren’t because he had a feeling it had to do with his mortality, and if that were the case, then maybe that something was death, and it was grinning, and he---   
  
The difference was that France and Spain were on either side of him and that rather than not knowing his fate, he knew a tad too much for his taste.   
  
_You may survive Russia… You won’t survive running._  
  
He could still hear France’s voice attached to the words, couldn’t stop his mind from looping them. They laced through his memories, through every haphazard thought of escape, somehow echoed every time he thought of the faces of the friends beside him. France’s voice, promising him life and ash in the same breath…   
  
God _damn_ France. Damn France for that look in his eyes, damn France for saving him and simultaneously fucking him over, damn France for that tremor in his voice that prevented Prussia from pretending that they were in control, damn France for sitting beside him right now and gripping his hand like he was some sort of pathetic child…   
  
He gritted his teeth and rocked his head backwards over the headrest.   
  
Damn France, but please don’t let him take the fall for this.   
  
“What about you…?” Prussia croaked out, the first time one of them had spoken since the drive began.   
  
He caught the twist of France’s smile from the corner of his eyes. “What about us, cher?”   
  
Prussia angled his head to level him with a glare it would have been impossible to look past. “It’ll get out, that you helped me. It has to. What are you…”   
  
France ran his free hand over the left pocket of his coat, where Prussia knew he was keeping a letter written on aged parchment- the kind that England used as personal stationary. “I can lose nothing more than I already have, and it is my own fault.”   
  
For a moment, Prussia felt like apologizing. But that was before he caught the acceptance in France’s voice and the gentle, subtle stroke of his thumb on his index finger. _I have no regrets. I would do it again_. So he kept his mouth shut and didn’t betray how much he felt like a jerk for this.   
  
“We’ll be fine, Prussia,” Spain soothed from the other side. “Trust us. Please.”   
  
A crazed laugh ripped from Prussia’s mouth, making France jump; his voice broke mid-note. Desperation, fear, something with teeth, sharp, predatory… “I got in the fucking car, didn’t I?”   
  
And then, as if time were mocking him, the car began to slow.   
  
France’s hand tightened around his, and despite the fact Prussia had done nothing to acknowledge the contact for the entire drive, in that moment he couldn’t stop himself from clenching his fist. It might have bruised a human, but France said nothing. He’d be forced to let go soon enough, regardless.   
  
They were just outside Barcelona, the three of them having refused to meet anywhere where Russia may have the upper hand or where the former Allies may still maintain too strong of a presence. Spain had chosen the location, and Prussia couldn’t fault him for the choice for several reasons, the most important having nothing to do with scenery. The narrow, dirt road they turned onto forked to wrap around a stone courtyard and an old church crawling with vines. The trees that had shielded the church from view on the main road stretched up towards the early morning sky, green and aging, ignorant of anything around them.   
  
But as Prussia got out of the car, hand slipping with finality from France’s, that wasn’t what he saw.   
  
What he saw was that the vines were blooming purple, and a few petals had gotten in Hungary’s hair, and it reminded him of when they were kids- the times when the light had caught her just right and he’d believed she was a girl, and _God_ she looked healthier than he’d seen her in years.   
  
Then he saw her expression of contempt and remembered she hated him. He forced his eyes from her face, over Poland’s and Lithuania’s, and finally to Russia.   
  
The bastard’s constant smile was in place, and how anyone could ever call it childlike was beyond him. There was something about it that didn’t balance right with his eyes, something that made it seemed barbed, poisoned, an accessory to the chill of his voice. “Good morning, comrades,” the other nation called out to them. “How was your trip?”   
  
Hatred cracked like electricity in Prussia’s chest, dragging through fear. “Fuck off,” he bit out.   
  
Spain’s hand found his forearm in warning.   
  
“Let him.” One side of Russia’s smile turned up a little further. “He won’t be able to speak to me like that much longer, I’m thinking…” His arms opened at his sides, palms up, welcoming, and his attention focused on his soon-to-be charge. “Will you come to me, Prussia, or must I come get you…?”   
  
It was a play at his pride, but it was one Prussia could meet. If giving himself over to Russia meant his survival, he’d do it, but he’d be damned if he was going to bend beneath the bastard’s smile.   
  
He took a rebellious step forward, fully intending to keep walking.   
  
Then he lost contact with Spain’s hand at his arm and could no longer feel France at his side, and he faltered. Involuntarily, he looked back at them. Their expressions were guarded, masked by years of dealing with loss, but they were his closest friends, and he _knew_ that undercurrent in their eyes. Without a word, Prussia spun towards them, and pressed a fleeting kiss to Spain’s cheek and the corner of France’s mouth; neither moved to touch him, knew they couldn’t afford to. He remembered their goodbyes then, how they’d spoken all night, curled into each other’s clothed bodies despite the heat and trying to pretend a separation wasn’t coming. It was when he pulled back to meet France’s stare that he finally accepted what the following years would hold for him. Blue eyes bore into his, but he couldn’t answer the question in them ( _had never been able to…)._  
  
Prussia reached into the collar of his shirt and unhooked the chain of the Iron Cross hanging under it. It was a relic from the dawn of the Dark Ages, rough and scratched from the centuries. He grabbed the back of France’s hand and pressed the steel into his palm. “You know what to do with this.”   
  
France’s hand trembled for a beat before closing around it, the subdued determination evident in his posture, a silent promise a promise nonetheless.   
  
It was when he had to step away from France, the one nation that had risked everything for him despite the life he’d led, that he stabbed through the fear of death and raged into defiance.   
  
Prussia turned his back on his friends and marched towards Russia of his own volition, careful not to look any of the nations at Russia’s sides in the eyes. He’d cut a swathe through them in his madness, and living with their reminder would be a small corner of his reparation, but in that moment it was Russia whom he needed to see. His steps were calm, casual, controlled, but they still took him away from the people he loved.   
  
“Good,” Russia murmured as he drew close enough to touch.   
  
Prussia didn’t reply.   
  
His thoughts were on the friends behind him and how, even if there weren’t a countless number of reasons why he was going to _fucking survive_ , he’d still manage it just to shove it in the rest of the world’s face and show them that there were some loyalties even war couldn’t dissolve.   
  
It was just a fucking shame that his kind were so prone to forgetting it.   
  
\----   
  
France solemnly walked through the great iron gate outside of Germany’s home, two armed American guards waved him through, stone faced as raindrops coated their ponchos and helmets. Behind him, the door slammed shut and the bars glared at him like the visage of a prison. With slow, careful steps he navigated the torn walkways that led to a three-story house, made to look older by the scorch marks still adorning the walls from when the houses on either side had gone up in a flash of fire and shrapnel.   
  
He paused at the doorway for a moment, the weight of the cross and the letter in his pocket threatening to burn through his coat.   
  
Now that Prussia had gone with the Soviets… something was sitting on his chest and making breathing difficult.   
  
He was proud. And he was tired. And he felt tragic.   
  
Suddenly, he found himself yearning for that elusive happy ending, anything to replace the soggy, exhausting sense that he had broken even. France tapped the old doorbell. In return, it gave him a sad sobbing noise.   
  
He didn’t know what he expected. Maybe he thought Germany would come marching to the door, examine him for a moment before asking him what he wanted, in which he could deliver the cross, send Prussia’s regards, and be on his way.   
  
Simple tasks rarely remained in that state for long.   
  
When the door opened he found himself looking at Italy.   
  
The other nation’s eyes lit up and he literally _beamed_. “Big brother France!” he cheered, which was the only warning France received before Italy’s arms were wrapped around him. Balance was hard to maintain but manageable.   
  
He smiled back. “Ah. Cherie! It’s wonderful to see you!” France meant that; Italy was always a dear. “May I come inside?”   
  
Italy broke away, effervescent smile still in place. “Ve~ Of course. Big brother France is always welcome! And it’s been raining in Berlin these last couple of weeks. I always like the rain at first because it feels like summer and I like catching it on my tongue, but after a while it just gets muggy and everyone looks sad. The _alleycats_ look so sad! I wanted to bring some inside, but Ludwig said no.”   
  
The second France walked through the threshold, something large, dark, and hairy came barreling towards him from a far corner. Barks as loud as gunshots echoed through the room, and he reflexively stepped back as the mammoth of a dog collided with his waist.   
  
“He let me keep the puppy, though.”   
  
He tried not to look nervous at the beast’s size, but when its paws started bouncing the large body into a playful jump, France clumsily tried to hold it down. “Italy, cher. Please don’t feed me to your very… very, very big dog.” This was why he preferred poodles.   
  
Gently, Italy grabbed the dog’s collar and ushered it into a closed room. “Here, girl. That wasn’t very nice,” he chided. Italy always had the same look on his face- a blissful little smile that made it hard to believe he was scolding anybody.   
  
He closed the door with a little sigh and an airy giggle. “I’m sorry. She hasn’t gotten her walk in a while so she’s a little overexcited.”   
  
“Do you want tea? I just made some~” With a little skip, Italy spun into the dining room, where a steaming pot of tea rested peacefully on an old table that had somehow survived the occupation of Berlin.   
  
France nodded an affirmative and pulled out a chair while Italy busied himself with pouring the hot liquid.   
  
The ceramics were set down on the table with gentle clacks before sitting down, squirming as though he could hardly contain his excitement. “Are you here on business?”   
  
“Actually, it’s personal.” The blond nation lifted the hot little cup to his lips and took a cautious sip. The tea was sweetened- that Italy had procured sugar during reconstruction spoke of supernatural powers. It was spiced, sweet herbal tones warming France’s chest like champagne as he swallowed.   
  
A pang of disappointment and the ache of longing still shot through him when he realized it wasn’t Earl Gray with two lumps of sugar and a splash of cream.   
  
Something changed on Italy’s face; every trace of happiness on his face suddenly looked like a farce. “You’re not here to see me, are you?”   
  
“How is he?” France hated doing that, causing that sadness to surface even as Italy tried to hide it and be positive.   
  
“He doesn’t want… anything anymore. Not since we were told about Gilbert.” His voice hitched and France felt something crack inside at Italy’s use of the word ‘we’. “Poor Gilbert.” A wan little smile lit his features, even as his face blanched and tears formed on his eyes. “And Ludwig was doing so well! He was eating again. He wasn’t washing his hands until they bled anymore. I’d even look outside and see him playing with the dog! He was… doing so well.”   
  
At the last note, his voice dipped towards… pure helplessness. Disappointment. Like Italy had tried so hard and fought so long to see his friend make that kind of progress, only to have it snatched away by some impersonal military memo.   
  
“Well,” France said, “I come bearing news.”   
  
“Please tell me it’s good news. We need good news really badly.”   
  
“The best.” France leaned in for a camaraderie whisper, unable to keep a smile from his face. Somehow, if he could bring happiness to Italy with this news, then it would be worth it. “Gilbert is alive.”   
  
And… Italy just stared.   
  
“No,” he said, face falling. “No. I know what you’re like, big brother, and I won’t let you hurt him any more than you already have.”   
  
The first thing France felt could be most closely identified as numbness… and then there was confusion. “What…?” he managed.   
  
Italy’s hands clenched in his lap, and he looked down, away from France’s face. The tears that had been brought to the surface at the mention of Germany’s condition and Gilbert’s alleged death fell, but they were quiet and imperceptible. “I don’t know why you’re doing this, but I won’t let you! I won’t let you lie to him. I can’t watch him break again. I, I can’t…”   
  
“You think I’m lying…” The words were hollow, and France felt as though he was watching the exchange from a third person perspective, distant and disbelieving.   
  
Italy seemed to crumple, his shoulders rounding as he buckled forward. There was a tremble in his body, and that was the only indication of his silent sobs. He didn’t answer.   
  
France wet his lips, spoke softly. The weight on his chest doubled with the accusation, pushed air from his lungs. “Italy…” he pleaded breathlessly. “Please, remember what Gilbert means to me.” He shut his eyes briefly, _so briefly_ , and yet he still saw a flash of Prussia’s face. “Germany wasn’t the only one who loved him.”   
  
The slow lift of Italy’s head as he brought himself to meet France’s eyes, the sweet look of desperate pain on his face, would have broken anyone, least of all a man such as France who had been so apt to break of late; how tired France was of seeing the desolate shells his friends had been rendered into.   
  
“I hurt those I love. I know that.” France couldn’t stop himself from reaching across the table and mentally collapsing into gratitude as Italy intuitively, albeit haltingly, caught his hand halfway. “But would I ever let someone I loved so dearly die? Would I ever kill them myself?”   
  
Italy searched his face, and suddenly France regretted asking the question. He wanted someone to tell him no, that they did not believe he was capable of such a thing, that after the maelstrom of betrayals and emotions that he’d been subjected to, he could still be trusted. He wanted someone to tell him that. But if Italy, precious, gentle Italy believed he was a monster… then…   
  
“No…” It was spoken thoughtfully, and Italy’s hand squeezed his own. “I don’t think you’d let them die.”   
  
The reprieve thrummed through France’s chest, and he sank forward in heady, unreserved relief.   
  
“Gilbert… is alive?” Italy repeated softly, carefully, as if the words were fragile and could shatter into unreality if he wasn’t delicate.   
  
“Yes, Italy…” A laugh tore from France’s throat as he bent forward, light and faltering. “He is alive, and he is safe.”   
  
Italy stood so quickly that the chair screeched back and nearly toppled. “Ludwig. We have to go to Ludwig!” He released his hand to grab France’s arm urgently, beginning to pull him towards the stairs.   
  
“Of course, darling…” France agreed, allowing himself to be dragged.   
  
Italy took the stairs two at a time, and France was forced to do so as well, refusing to break the contact between them. The other nation’s grip on his arm wasn’t painful, but it was tight, and France thought that maybe he was acting as an anchor, that somehow the declaration of life and salvation that he’d given Italy was a hope that must be clung to.   
  
It wasn’t until they stood outside a large door of dark wood that France fully comprehended what he was about to walk in on. His mind darted involuntarily to memories of what Germany had looked like as he discussed the possibility of France’s execution, the cool professionalism with which he spoke, as if signing off on grain and not on a fellow nation’s blood.   
  
Then Italy twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open, and France’s mind closed in on itself at what he saw.   
  
The bedridden nation occupying the dimly lit room could not possibly be alive. Germany was too still, too pale, too vacant of expression to be anything but dead. His skin had lost all color, and even his lips were white. The eyes that had been such a frigid blue seemed to absorb the sparse light and consume it, reflecting nothing but a listless void as they stared unseeingly above. There was no indication that he was even aware the door had opened. And God, _this_ is what Italy had been trying to heal…   
  
“Ludwig…?” Italy ventured, stepping forward warily with the smile with which he’d greeted France. “France is here. He has something he wants to tell you. Are you listening?”   
  
The shell blinked, and Ludwig turned his head. His eyes seemed to focus somewhat as they found Italy. “Feliciano…”   
  
“He’s speaking. That’s good,” Italy murmured to France before moving further into the room. “Yes, it’s me, Ludwig.” He sat on the edge of the bed, and his hands lifted to gently straighten the covers; the sheets were twisted and disheveled, and France fought to suppress thoughts of the things that must make Germany struggle in his sleep. “Will you talk to France, please?”   
  
It took a moment, but his vacant eyes locked on the other nation. “France?” A flicker of comprehension crossed Germany’s face, but his name was spoken like a question, like Germany wasn’t sure whether he was there or not.   
  
“Yes, it’s me.” Slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal, France padded into the room. The difference was that even the most mortally wounded animals would bite- Germany probably wouldn’t have raised protest if France had held a gun against his temple.   
  
“Ludwig,” Italy said softly, “you sound like your throat hurts. Do you want something to drink?”   
  
Germany’s gaze left France for a moment, slowly finding Italy. “No, I’m fine,” he insisted, even if the rasp in his voice exposed his lie.   
  
With a small, fragile movement, Italy reached for Germany’s hand. He managed to make contact, the tanned skin of his hand dark against pale, bruised knuckles. After a moment, Germany closed his eyes and pulled his hand from Italy’s grip. The Italian squeezed his eyes shut and fisted his fingers in the sheets where his friend’s hand had been.   
  
France was tempted to hate him for that, tempted to hate him for everything he’d done, feel fully inclined and justified in loathing the broken man in front of him.   
  
Until Germany spoke.   
  
“I only want to know one thing,” Germany said, voice breaking from both physical condition and what could only be called an overflow of emotion- grief, rage, and guilt all warring for control of his mind and the right to pull him into some deserved and self-determined punishment. “Did he suffer?”   
  
And France realized he couldn’t hate him; there was simply no purpose in it, and he was himself too much of a romantic to deny the love he saw. This nation wasn’t a Nazi, wasn’t the man that had calmly debated murder with his senior officers.   
  
In his place, France saw the person that had saved his life. He may have done it for Prussia, but that didn’t change the fact that the choice to call it off had been his. France found himself recognizing that action for what it had been- humanity.   
  
He saw someone who blamed himself for a loved one’s death. In that moment, there was no doubt in his mind that Germany would have taken Prussia’s place, willingly handed the mantel of the nation to his brother and faced the punishment they’d handed down to him. Guilt and grief were powerful. They were emotions that could move their kind to disgust for living and eat away at sanity like a river wears down a dam.   
  
“No,” France replied, forcing neutrality. “He didn’t.” Germany looked relieved. Deeply, deeply relieved that it had been painless. “Before the Allied sentence could be carried out, a riot broke out on the execution grounds and allowed Prussia to escape. He hid in Spanish territory for nearly a week before Russian forces located and arrested him.”   
  
Germany frowned. Hesitation to commit himself to the hope that France was promising evident in the cautious joy. He wanted desperately to believe it. “What are you telling me?”   
  
France couldn’t keep the smile down. He reached into his pocket and produced the-old, worn, stubborn- Iron Cross. He held his hand out, let the emblem dangle in front of Germany long enough for the truth to sink in. “Russia has explicitly said he has no intention of returning him to Allied jurisdiction.” France walked the final few steps to Germany’s bedside, watched with a sense of pride as the other reached towards the necklace and took it from France’s hands like it was the holy chalice. He let it settle in his palm, stared at it to make sure it was the right one.   
  
“He’s alive, and there are plans to ensure that he stays that way.”   
  
Italy smiled. “I just love hearing it. It’s wonderful, Ludwig, isn’t it?”   
  
Germany stayed quiet for a long time, running his fingers over the marks, dips, and scars that were older than he was. From this angle, it was easy to see the red patches in his skin that had first been scrubbed raw with a sponge and then irritated with soap.   
  
“I thought I’d killed him,” Germany whispered. “I would have done anything to take it back.”   
  
“Now you won’t have to.” Something was glowing inside of France. No matter whom he was speaking to, he felt a surge of…peace at having given another a reason to live and given Italy his friend back.   
  
Germany grasped Italy’s hand. The movement was awkward and infinitely clinical, but as Germany swayed rising to a sitting position, Italy tugged back and helped him to lean against the headboard. Now properly vertical, he met Italy’s smile with an awkward, relieved grin of his own. The gesture looked…strange on Germany’s face, but Italy welcomed it by sliding over and pressing his forehead against the crook of the taller nation’s neck. He giggled, which turned to delighted laughter at the transformation he’d just seen.   
  
France suddenly felt as though he was witnessing something terribly personal.   
  
As he made to leave, Italy’s voice halted him. “Thank you, big brother.”   
  
France hid his face in the door. “You have nothing to thank me for, cher.” Maybe someday but not yet.   
  
Casting one last glance at them as he left, France thought of everything the Italian nation had gone through to see his friend again. No matter how bad it had gotten, he hadn’t left because _the good times had just meant that much to him_.   
  
France knew what he needed to do.   
  
Yes, he’d completed Prussia’s last request of him. Effectively speaking, his mission was wrapped and shelved. Everything that he’d set out to do had been accomplished and he could return to his normal life with a clear conscience.   
  
But there was still one person he wanted to see for himself before he could call the curtain.   
  
One more escape was all he wanted.   
  
Was a happy ending too much to ask for? 


	6. Chapter 6

France didn’t go back to the German office that had been assigned to him; he made a call, short and authoritative, and arranged for a ride back to his Parisian home. He was done, very done. He wished, rather belatedly, that he’d chosen to drive alone; the hours spent in the backseat only afforded him time to think and to unfurl England’s letter and knife the words further beneath his ribcage. It twisted and stung, not only from the slow poison of loss but of truth. Truth had such a _wondrous_ habit of gutting him just when he thought he’d found an edge of mercy. God knows how he’d managed to deserve both.   
  
He was oblivious to the number of times he crumpled forward and took a ragged breath that the driver magnanimously chose to ignore. He was ignorant of the number of times a half-formed excuse, a fragile explanation, stumbled over his tongue for a nation that wasn’t there, and the driver had simply stared straight ahead, silent.   
  
When he was finally walking towards his front door, and the car had pulled away with a tip France had blindly thrown on the seat and could only guess the amount of, he was hardly cognizant of his surroundings.   
  
He was done.   
  
All he had the focus to devote himself to were the steps it would take him to discover a bottle of wine and guide him upstairs to a mournfully, but perhaps _blessedly_ empty bed.   
  
Unfortunately old tendencies weren’t quite that easy to throw off, and some small, still-attentive corner of his mind pointed out that something was wrong when his hand fell on the doorknob. France blinked confusedly, trying to swim up from a haze to grasp what had given him pause.   
  
Then he saw it: a brick in the wall of his house that was slightly out of place.   
  
Someone had used the spare key and hadn’t replaced it properly.   
  
At first it was alarming. A moment later, it was only perplexing. The key hadn’t been put to use for _years_ , perhaps _decades_. The only ones who knew it was there were Spain, Prussia, and…   
  
England.   
  
His breath caught in his throat. Prussia was gone, out of reach. Spain wouldn’t be there; he’d have known France’s state of mind and _called_.   
But England… a knowing _cause_ of his state of mind, furious, wounded, betrayed, perhaps not entirely content with what could be conveyed in a letter, perhaps not entirely certain of France’s acceptance, perhaps not entirely sober, perhaps not entirely satisfied they’d found closure…   
  
France’s hand shook as he twisted the knob and pushed the door open.   
  
It didn’t take him long to find his visitor.   
  
One lamp in the sitting room had been turned on, and it was dim and ethereal in union with the pure, blue-white light of twilight falling through the windows.   
  
England occupied a chair opposite the doorway where France now stood. He slowly rose to his feet at the sight of the other nation, but said nothing.   
  
“You’re here,” France managed softly, disbelievingly after a moment of uncertain silence.   
  
“Not for lack of intent to leave.” England’s eyes were cold, but there was a certain turn of his mouth that France recognized as angry and pained. The words gave an opening; the tone did not.   
  
France hesitated, scared that he might spook England away if he spoke, that the other’s presence was a mere apparition brought on by too much stress and too little sleep.   
  
At last, out of the menagerie of apologies, pleas, and justifications, he found the words that he desperately wanted to say to England above all others. If England were to walk out on him immediately thereafter, he would have said what he needed to say most. “I never meant to hurt you.”   
  
“Fuck your intentions,” England snarled, viciousness rising like a tidal wave, “Your intentions mean absolutely nothing to me- cause and effect. Your intentions set a weapon free. Your intentions set you on a path to betray me. Whatever your intentions were your actions speak to the contrary.”   
  
France closed his eyes, preparing himself for what was sure to be another long and arduous task. “I had no choice.”   
  
“You had no choice?” England was practically spitting as the words were hissed out through his gritted teeth. “You are standing here, telling me that you had no choice?”   
  
“I couldn’t watch him die-“   
  
“Simple. If you don’t want to watch someone die, you don’t volunteer to off them yourself. You could have read a goddamn novel that day.”   
  
Something hot, suddenly ferocious stirred in France. At the last moment, he realized England was baiting him and smoothed his voice. “It’s not that easy and you know it.”   
  
England crossed his arms, bent forward and twisted his face into a sneer- a singular mocking entity. “It was easy enough for him.”   
  
“What?” France was, for a moment, confused about what England could have been talking about.   
  
“Germany obsessively records things- a lovely little habit that is helpful now that we’re trying his war criminals.” For a moment, England looked scared. He shuddered for a moment and this time France didn’t think it was entirely from rage. “You never talked much about what happened to you in Paris, and I respected that. But I just needed to know what he – Prussia, we’re talking about Prussia- had done that was so fucking noble as to deserve such unfaltering loyalty from you.”   
  
“You’re putting words in my mouth,” France managed, stunned at this… intrusion. “My loyalty wasn’t unfaltering, there were times I didn’t understand why I cared at all. It was hard for me to do what I did.”   
  
“This from the man that had no choice?” England raised an eyebrow, as if he enjoyed giving and taking away, holding out hope as he waited for France to ensnare himself. Still, there was no denying the menacing chill that snapped to place in his eyes, enraged. “He would have killed you in cold blood.”   
  
France felt his tired bones shake and shatter in the face of England’s barely controlled wrath- even when he came to the revelation that it wasn’t directed at him. England’s hands were gloved, and the leather strained against his knuckles with an audible groaning noise.   
  
“I don’t believe that.” France crossed his own arms; the motion was more for one of solitary comfort than any desire to hold his ground. A part of him just wanted to let go- let England rant and rave and rage and just nod and agree with it. France was weary of fighting. The only thing that kept his resolve was England’s anger at the thought of him dying. It told France that England did care, that there was still hope for this poor beleaguered thing that was worth fighting for. “Not anymore.”   
  
“So that’s it?” England asked. There was a mad cackle. “He’s just… forgiven.” Calmly, too calmly, England began walking towards him, heavy boots padding on the rug in front of him. His hands were locked carefully behind his back. “You’ve known me longer, but the things he’s done to you… what he would have done if not for that pathetic glimmer of a conscience he still has.” He was standing face to face with France now, green eyes boring into him with the intensity mystics used to set things on fire. “Prussia has done more to you in the last three centuries than I have done to you in a thousand years. I stood at your side during two world wars and I still feel a wall between us; he has an outburst and he is forgiven.”   
  
France stayed quiet, not sure what England intended to do with the closed space between them.   
  
England’s eyes were glimmering now. “I’m so sick of your lies, your half-truths. There’s a beast inside me, France, still very awake from the paranoia of war, and it tells me you did mean to hurt me. From the beginning.”   
  
Incredulously shocked, France’s own grip around himself loosened and his arms fell numbly to his sides. What was… England saying?   
  
“You knew I would advocate his death. So you started teasing me, trying to get me to believe that you cared about me for even a moment. You fed me what I wanted and laced it with cyanide.”   
  
Every time the sentence was directed at him was like the sound of gunfire and accusation the bullet. For a few horrible moments, there was no cover for France to hide under, shock rendering his own vocalizations useless. “No,” he whispered. This was all wrong. “Please no.”   
  
“You manipulated me.” England’s voice cut across his fragile desperation with seemingly no thought to the damage done. “You needed me to trust you so that you could avoid suspicion until the last moment. The fact you could hurt me in the process was just an additional benefit.”   
  
“ _No_ ,” France tried, hands lifting unconsciously to grip England’s arms. He knew immediately that he shouldn’t have touched him, but couldn’t let go now that he had. “England, I _lov_ \---”   
  
England shoved him away forcefully but didn’t step back. The laugh returned, but now it could almost be called a growl; it reminded France too much of Prussia. “Oh, you _love me_ …” One shoulder dipped sardonically. “You love me so much that the only replies I can think of are accusations revolving around ways you’ve betrayed me. You love me so _dearly_ that after everything I’ve said, you’ve offered only platitudes and negations without substance.” He took an aggressive step forward. “You can’t even defend yourself, France.”   
  
France attempted to find some semblance of calm. He knew that _now,_ when he was the most distressed, was the time when he needed to be most composed. “How can I defend myself when you won’t trust anything I say?” All he could hope was that the sum of his words would make the difference that single sentences could not, but he knew from experience that England would still be able to dissect and expose every flaw. “You don’t understand Prussia, and with that last accusation it’s evident you don’t understand me.” His voice broke on the last syllable. “How could you possibly understand the two of us together, understand the relationship between us? I can’t defend something you’re already so poisoned against.”   
  
A sneer curved England’s mouth, but the intended spite of it didn’t reach his eyes. There was real vulnerability, cornered and vindictive, there that France hated being the cause of. “I’m not asking you to defend your relationship with Prussia. I’m asking you to defend your relationship with me.”  
  
“Then give me that chance.” France edged nearer, cautious but determined. He wanted to take his hand; he didn’t. He wasn’t sure he could take the emotion he’d feel when England flinched away. “Tell me something, _ask me something,_ but give me the opportunity to respond before you move on to the next.”   
  
“Give me an answer that isn’t simply an attempt to placate me, and I will,” England replied lowly. Their stares were still locked in place on each other’s faces, and France didn’t miss the moment when something new crept into England’s expression. It was obvious that the silence that followed wasn’t due to England searching for something to say, but because he knew what he wanted to ask and dreaded the reply. Finally, he spoke, and the question felt like needles to France’s skin. “Would you have still chosen to save Prussia if you knew that you’d lose me?”   
  
France blanched and took a shallow breath. His heartbeat was too strong in his chest, a ram inside a husk. “Don’t make me choose.” He hadn’t meant the words to sound so much like a plea.   
  
“ _Answer me_.” It was a demand, stark and unrelenting. England’s body was so tensed that he was shaking, and the emotion in his eyes danced between anger, longing, and wounded pride. He was hinging everything on France’s response, on the truth of which of them France was the most devoted to protecting. If only England had realized that wasn’t what it amounted to…   
  
“Yes,” France responded in a cracked whisper. Honesty had rarely felt so damning. “I would have still chosen to save him.”   
  
England studied his face carefully and then pushed past him to leave. Their arms knocked together roughly, and France reached out to snatch England’s wrist, refusing to allow it end there. “Let me go!” England snapped, pulling against him; France held tight.   
  
“I would sacrifice my own happiness for the life of someone I love,” France continued, an undercurrent of conviction making his voice waver. “I’d sacrifice the happiness of someone I love for the life of someone I love. I know that if I’d chosen to let a friend die in order to be with you, I’d have come to resent you for that loss and for that grief, and I…” His grip strengthened. “If he survived, I knew that I would have time to try and repair the damage done to my relationship with you. I’d still have a chance. If Prussia died, I’d have lost him and eventually would have lost you as well. I can’t bear the thought of losing you both.”   
  
England paused, smoldering but stable, eyes still focused firmly on his way out.   
  
France’s touch didn’t loosen. “Isn’t that the sort of selfishness you’ve always accused me of?” Nervously, shrilly, and without humor, he laughed. “I apologize for curing myself of it under such circumstances.” He didn’t even bother to hide the implied supplication in his eyes. “You asked the question. I’m sure you expected a lie. Please don’t cut me down for being genuine, too.”   
  
“If that’s true,” England hissed, carrying on as if France had said nothing of substance, eyes shifting from the exit to France’s face, “then why didn’t you tell me?”   
  
Not…in his wildest dreams had France expected England to say that. He was so stunned that his hands loosened enough for England to jerk his arm free. Instead of leaving, he fisted in a handful of France’s coat and yanked him down to eye-level. “How dare you call that the truth. _I_ decide what the truth is. If either of us meant so much to you, you would have been straightforward about your feelings to begin with.” His eyes darkened in pleasure, like he took some sick satisfaction in slicing through every attempt at reason. “It must have been so much more fun to make me the villain. Who knows, maybe you even got some sick pleasure out of making him think he was a dead man.”   
  
“I’m not being straightforward? England, I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me.”   
  
“ _I’m saying that trust goes both ways, France!_ ” He bellowed, and he shoved France against the wall. Their bodies were pressed together, but there was a chill of potential violence. At least he wasn’t leaving. “You go on about how I should trust you, _what do I do when you don’t even trust me?!_ If it meant so much to you, did it ever, _ever_ cross your mind that I might respect your wishes? It’s obvious that you are either too manipulative or it is only a reflection of your true feelings. It’s hard to trust to someone you don’t actually care about, isn’t it?” He chuckled manically, his grasp on France’s coat only tightening. Control was barely regained in time to stop himself from choking the taller man. His gaze seemed to wander off, “This thing makes a great handhold, don’t you think, _France_?” It was said seconds before the fabric clenched cruelly around France’s neck. For a moment, France was afraid that England would lift him off his feet, strangle him right then and there before his surprise could be remedied.   
  
“England,” he gasped, “please…” The angle of the fabric shifted enough for him to breathe unobstructed.  
  
He’d never dreamed that, on top of everything else, England would be hurt that he hadn’t thought he would do the right thing. The noble thing. In a way, it was the nature of his betrayal- it wouldn’t have been a betrayal if England had known about it, wouldn’t it? France searched his memory, tried to pull up images of the moment the cruel truth of Prussia’s fate had been known to him and his own resulting thoughts. _Had_ he even stopped to consider an honest approach? Or was he simply too engraved in age-old habits of deceit that the treacherous way had seemed like the only way?   
  
Irony, that lady again. Come to think on it, this was the same room he’d told Prussia he was a relic of the past, borne in ancient fires that he wasn’t modern enough to let go of. Now he stood where Prussia had once stood, and realized that a part of him was no better.   
  
“It wasn’t a risk I could take,” France answered finally, giving the explanation that felt closest to reality. “You’re right, it does go both ways. But would you have spared him because I asked you to, England? Is that what you would have really done?”   
  
England’s eyes dropped. Suddenly, the anger was replaced by astonishment at his shallow attempt at entrapment.   
  
“I see.” It was hard to keep the smugness out of his voice. So very hard. This was not time or place.   
  
“No,” England admitted, “No. I don’t think I would have.” During that time, his hate for Prussia had been no secret.   
  
“There are people in the world that you would do anything for. Couldn’t stand to hurt or see hurt.” He was treading on dangerous ground, and he knew it. Even at their most open moments, England had never detailed that night in the rain that forged their future savior.   
  
“It’s true,” England’s hand dropped from France’s coat, without energy or feeling. Vainly, perhaps because it was the only thing he could do, France reached up a hand to straighten the displaced fabric. England’s moods were terrible things; reasoning with the anger was impossible, and when the strength for rage left him the resigned hurt was no less impenetrable.   
  
A stream of salt water slipped down the Brit’s chin, only to be quickly wiped away when England reminded himself it had no place there. “My spies knew what they were planning for you before you did,” his confession came with the strength of a battering ram but the outward force of a lamb, “They told me that major Reich officials and generals were meeting in Paris- and Germany was with them. That was the big tip off. People like that are only gathered when you’re discussing the fall of a nation.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “You were going to be murdered while I sat helpless, pinned between bombs and solid earth; the last free nation in Europe. It’s so horrible, to be willing to do anything and yet watch helplessly as the walls crumble. In short, yes, there are people who are so dear to me.”  
  
There was a pause, during which he met France’s eyes. Moss green glistening with pain; to think there was a time that France had taken pride in being the only one who could bring _Angleterre_ to tears. “For a while there, I even thought you were one of them.”   
  
He turned to leave, and France found himself unable to lift his own limbs to stop him.   
  
“England,” he whispered. The other nation didn’t hear -or ignored- him. One hand was on the door by the time France found his voice.   
  
“I would have done the same for you, were you in his place.”   
  
England slowed to a stop, the doorknob half-turned. His body was so tense that his shoulders quivered; he didn’t face him.  
  
“If the core of your anger lies in the fact that I betrayed you and put the world in danger by saving Prussia, then I accept it.” France’s hand rose to his throat and he massaged the still-sore skin there, eyes momentarily dipping to the ground. He was well aware that he deserved a degree England’s antipathy; he’d once again exhibited his penchant for lies, and in England’s eyes, it could cost them another war. “I can not promise that I won’t rage against the distance between us at a later date, but I do understand.”  
  
There was no response from England, and France was afraid to look up in case he had left, and his words had disguised the sound of the door opening and closing.  
  
“But if the root of your anger is the belief that I somehow chose him over you… that I love him more than you… Then forgive me, cheri, but I will _not_ accept it, because it is absurd.” Fervor crept into France’s voice, thin and strangling like piano wire. “I chose life over death, over anguish, not love over love. Never, during the entire course of my actions, did I not consider you and dread what this would do to us. There is no one I care for more than you. Prussia and Spain will always be my closest friends, but you’re…” A hopeless, shallow laugh tumbled over his tongue; trying to put a _word_ to what England was to him was ludicrous. He finally lifted his eyes again.  
  
England was watching him now, expression unreadable. The dying light from outside caught and played over the fabric of his clothes, did something strange to his eyes and skin.  
  
France was smiling, but it was thin and sick with desperation. “In the span of our lives, you’ve been nearly everything to me… And if you’d allow it, I’d have you fill that last space.” His hands fell to his sides and clenched on his sleeves, nails digging through the material and into his palms. “This world of ours can be capricious at best, but if there is someone who has unequivocally secured my loyalty, it’s you. If you and Prussia’s positions had been reversed, I would have sacrificed everything to save you… more, infinitely more because the love I have for him is not the same as the love I feel for you.” His heart pounded achingly in his chest as his smile managed a wry angle. “Friendships are laughably easier to repair than what exists between you and I, non?”  
  
The other nation’s hand fell from the door.  
  
“What happened there?” England’s eyes sharpened and focused on France’s brow.  
  
He felt his expression flicker in confusion moments before his hand found the still-tender flesh above his eye. “Would you believe me if I told you I fell?” The following chuckle was without actual humor, even if it was meant to lighten his words.  
  
England was padding towards him again, this time lacking any trace of the threatening aura from before. “Let me see it- hold still.” His hands were gentle this time as he angled France’s head towards the light to get a better look. “How did you get this?”  
  
“I did it to myself, really. I toppled a bookshelf on Russia.” He thought of the books that had tumbled off and onto his head. “There was some backlash.”  
  
England’s pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Do I even want to know what Russia wanted with you?”  
  
“He wanted Prussia.”  
  
England sighed. “He’s with the Soviets now, is he?”  
  
“Yes,” France said with a cringe.  
  
“So…your one argument for the safety of the world is now invalid? The one benefit of this entire situation was that Prussia had no military and no nationality- and you’re telling me he has both again? And that he’s on the other side of a coming arms struggle between our own favorite superpowers?” The words were quiet, but more stressed than angry. The hand dropped, even as his gaze stayed locked with the carpet. “France. What on earth am I going to do with you?” He muttered to himself with a long-suffering grumble, the kind he used to use when America was a misbehaving child. Slowly, his hand began to straighten the buttons of the taller man’s coat.  
  
Some taut chord released in France when England smiled. “I don’t want to be mad at you. I don’t want to listen to that voice.”  
  
With great risk, France reached his hand out to England’s arm. “You don’t have to be mad at me, _Angleterre_. If you don’t want to, then don’t.”  
  
“I also don’t want to forgive you just yet. I’m still not inclined to trust you.” His hands steadied on France’s chest, a comforting contrast to his words. “But I’ll give you time to prove what you’ve said.” One hand dropped, groped for the hand at France’s side and grasped it. From that touch, France found determination and hope. He squeezed back. “Because I still remember what it’s like to lose that chance, I’ll let you show me.”  
  
France took the words as an invitation, wrapped his free hand around England’s waist and pulled him closer. The brit did not resist, even leaned into the touch.  
  
England tilted his head to the side and finalized the agreement.  
  
Everything suspended, fractured and aligned in the same moment. The years, the struggles, the laughter, the tears coalesced into a singularity- and it was all worth it.  
  
They broke the kiss and stood panting for a few moments. England’s fingers found the buttons he’d previously straightened. “I don’t think you’ll be needing this.” He slid it loose. France’s own fingers took over, trapping England in a second kiss as he disentangled himself from the blue uniform that had, until this moment, brought him nothing but trouble.  
  
He hooked it over the coat rack with one hand as he followed England upstairs.


	7. Chapter 7

England took his tea with two lumps of sugar and a splash of cream. Over the years, France didn’t think he’d grown tired of waking up in a room to the smell of Earl Gray and the sight of England grumpily flipping through the newspaper.   
  
“Morning, darling,” France sang as he sauntered past the table and began sifting through the available kitchen supplies.   
  
“I made breakfast,” England insisted sharply.   
  
France looked at the burnt sausages and… were those supposed to be pancakes? He tried not to wrinkle his nose. “Sure you did,” he said obligingly as he began orienting the minimum required ingredients for a simple gourmet breakfast.   
  
“Don’t patronize me,” England grumbled around the ceramic cup. Moss colored eyes followed France’s hands- both out of habitual awareness of their position and the mystery of the culinary process. Eventually, he gave up and went back to his newspaper.   
  
“What’s on the agenda today?” France asked as he placed an omelet- still sizzling with melted butter, cheese, and sliced mushrooms- in front of England with a very disarming smile.   
  
The Brit picked up a fork and tried to look as aggravated as possible as he took the first luxurious bite. “It’s a fairly safe bet to assume it’s either about climate change, America’s ever-growing list of international conflicts, or unfriendly states with weapons that could destroy entire cities in a flash- the usual.”   
  
They finished breakfast in a timely fashion and dressed for the day. The walk from their hotel to the designated international building was very short, but they somehow managed to get into an argument over the best route.   
  
The world had come quite far since the days of kings and courts. Tunics and crowns were replaced by shirt and tie in much the same way government officials had replaced monarchs. France sometimes still felt the long-passed imperial glory, sometimes his scars ached from the battles he’d lost, but he saw the improvement in himself and others.   
  
There was such a thing as a normal day again.   
  
France observed the crowd of fellow nations as he and England entered, picked up bits and pieces of conversations; the little dramas unfolding provided no end to amusement.   
  
Then his eyes locked on Prussia from across the room. The white-haired nation was bent over a seated Canada, trying to appear inconspicuous as he looked too interested in the resolution in front of the blonde.   
  
As France passed them, Canada broke into a laugh at something Prussia said, and France’s eyes locked with his friend’s.   
  
Prussia had the smile of a man that had lived atonement. He still struggled to adjust to the coat-and-tie diplomacy of the new world, somewhat resented the fact that his brother was better at it than he was, but France had seen him change, had the pleasure of watching the transformation that neither of them had thought was possible standing in a Parisian apartment half a century ago.   
  
He broke the contact and moved to his seat next to England, across from America, not bothering to hide his smile. It was times like that, seeing his old friend happy, adjusting, bringing happiness to someone else he cared about, reminded him of what he’d done and the importance of his actions in saving him. Seeing Prussia not just alive but enjoying life made him glad of the path he’d chosen all over again.   
  
Germany took charge of running the meeting. Contrary to England’s assumptions, the topic at hand was more about the information available about international issues and how to better inform common people about global concerns. America argued that both sides would need to be supplied. England insisted that that was absolutely ridiculous, and that the only way was to supply just the facts and let people decide for themselves. Other, developing countries argued that it was impossible for their people to have an opinion on problems in Europe and other continents when they barely had enough to live on. France somehow managed to stay out of the fray, instead enjoying the show with a flask of wine he’d managed to sneak inside. Somehow, towards the end of the day, they’d managed to agree on a proposition for their governments.   
  
When the slip of paper was passed by Russia for his signature, America snickered.   
  
“Is something amusing?” Russia asked carefully as he took out his pen and signed his name.   
  
“Nothing,” America replied, “it’s just still weird having you agree with me sometimes.” His eyes flashed. “I mean, I don’t think you’re gonna go back on this one, but you never know.”   
  
Suddenly, the aura in the room changed. Russia showed no outward signs of his rising temper other than a harsh squeeze to the ballpoint. “I have no idea to what you are referring to.”   
  
America snorted, “Well, you have to admit there’s one example that leaps to mind.”   
  
All other conversation in the room dropped to nothing. A solemn and dreadful claw of impending doom began to trace its way down France’s back.   
  
Russia’s smile tightened. “What?”   
  
“Well, it’s no secret.” America’s own demeanor shifted at the apparent denial of his supposed truth. “You were the one who sabotaged your allies and set Prussia free at the end of the war.”   
  
Out of the corner of his eye, France saw Prussia tense, rise half out of his chair as if he intended to tackle and brutalize anyone who allowed this conversation to continue. His own heart was pounding inside his chest, thundering harder, faster at every word.   
  
England, bless his heart, rose to cut off any further discussion. “This is not the proper venue to discuss this. America, we are all your guests here. I believe some courtesy is-“   
  
Russia chuckled, and England’s train of thought stopped where it was.   
  
“Oh, America, you did not know?”   
  
Blue eyes knitted together in sudden uncertainty. “Know what? What is there to know? You were the one who set Prussia free. You were the only one who voted in his favor… it had to be you.”   
  
“I thought you would have figured it out by now. Silly me.”   
  
“Russia!” Prussia roared from the other end. “You son of a bitch! We had a _deal_ -”   
  
Russia turned his gaze to France. “There was nothing in our deal about keeping the identity of your savior secret. Surely you did not intend for me to take the blame and suspicion forever? It was fine during the Cold War, but now I need people to trust me again.”   
  
France tried not to feel America’s gaze on him, tried not to think about the fact that he was about to incur the rage of a nation that bench-pressed trucks for fun. “France…what is he saying?”   
  
America had always believed in the power of their alliance during the Second World War. Perhaps it was naivety (perhaps not, as France’s alliances had stayed with him throughout his life), or perhaps it was just another aspect of the mythology about the conflict that America had tricked himself into believing unfalteringly. America would not be happy to learn of his treachery. And it would not be the anger he’d faced from England in the beginning. This would be the anger of a shattered reality.   
  
He sighed. He’d been a fool to think he could hide it forever, to think that he could go about his daily life without revealing his secrets at some point. Very few stones would lay unturned forever, and when one’s life was as long as a nation’s, lies were most likely to be unmasked later if not sooner.   
  
There was no denying this and yet… he had not expected his day of reckoning to come today. Normalcy came with curses all its own.   
  
“I set Prussia free.”   
  
The words slid from his lips as he leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers together as he met America’s coming denial, most likely to be followed by anger.   
  
“I saved Prussia’s life and I feel no shame.”   
  
Barely conscious of the nations to his side, he noticed those that didn’t want to get involved get up and leave, he noticed others lean in closer to get a better look at the imminent pummeling, and he saw the look of absolute shock on Germany’s face arrive in time to the fury on his brother’s.   
  
“You goddamn coward.” America looked so shocked that his mouth barely moved. “How could you…go behind our backs like that? How could you…” he seemed to remember the riot and the injuries he’d suffered there, “how could you see your allies hurt like that? You _motherfucker!_ ”   
  
England rose to his feet like he was preparing to intercept America, who looked ready to lunge across the table. “Stop behaving like this---”   
  
“And you?” America snarled. “You knew didn’t you? Why…” he looked between the two of them. “Russia- Russia I expect this from but…you two? France? Answer me! What did you have to gain that was so fucking important you were willing to betray your friends for the sake of a…a _war criminal_?”   
  
“ _Hey!_ ” Prussia barked, a familiar mad glint on his face. “Why don’t you back off the labels, blondie?”   
  
America turned on Prussia. “Why don’t you stay out of it?” If he realized the thoughtlessness of his next words, he gave no indication. “ _This has nothing to do with you_.”   
  
Silent apprehension snapped across the room like a whip before Prussia shot to his feet. “ _It has everything to do with me, you self-righteous little fuck!_ ” The fury in voice made the nations near him flinch away. This Prussia was far too reminiscent of days long left behind.   
  
“Brother…” Germany warned levelly even though his eyes were still transfixed on France’s face; France really wished he’d look away.   
  
Prussia rounded on him. “No! I’m not going to just sit here and listen to this bullshit!” He jabbed a finger at America. “This bastard has no idea what the _hell_ he’s talking about.”   
  
“Well, why don’t you enlighten me?” America sneered, voiced thick with the venom of someone who’d been injured, betrayed. It was a tone that France hated and had too much experience with.   
  
The twisted smile that cut across Prussia’s face made England tense beside him, but France was unchanged. Everything about the expression was familiar, and there was a time when it would have bespoken danger, but the passage of years had tied Prussia’s hands against that potential… a fact America should be thankful for.   
  
Prussia started walking, casual, nonchalant, around the table in America’s direction…   
  
…and passed him. There was a sharp intake of breath from the onlookers when they drew even with each other, but there was no exchange of words, and both looked fixedly ahead, America straight-backed and defiant, Prussia with shoulders hunched and a wicked tilt to his mouth. It was when Prussia rounded the end of the table and turned that France understood.   
  
Hands gripped the back of France’s chair, and he relaxed minutely. Prussia’s presence behind him was solid and strong, and England edged closer to his side, a hand going to the arm of France’s chair. With a jagged breath, France met America’s eyes and watched him evaluate the scene, watched him absorb the truth that there was a united front against him in this matter.   
  
“You want me to enlighten you, kid?” Prussia asked, tone quieter than it had been before but still reverberating with anger. “Then the first thing you’ve got to understand is that you don’t know shit about betrayal. Saving me might have been treason in your eyes, but it was done out of loyalty. France and I have been friends for centuries. Even when we fought, we were still friends, closer than I think you can comprehend. Our loyalty to each other outlived your _alliance_ by several hundred years. We could never let each other die.” He laughed lowly, and it was jarring, unnatural. “You have _no fucking grasp_ on betrayals and loyalties until you’re put in that position.”   
  
“I believe I should also point out…” Spain’s voice, conversational and relaxed, called out from the other end of the table. “That France thought Prussia would be mortal. When he was brought to me after he was saved, the three of us were under the impression that Prussia would live a human life and die. He was not a danger to you in that condition, America. We were not, ah, _releasing a war criminal bent on revenge_ as your stance would seem to suggest. It was impossible that you and the other Allies could be killed in the rescue and impossible that you would be killed because of it afterwards… We were protecting someone we love. Surely you can appreciate that?”   
  
“You… you were in on it too?” America asked numbly, not sure anymore where to look.   
  
“Yes, of course,” Spain answered, his voice unusually bright considering the situation. “I provided transportation and sanctuary.” He smiled with a tilt of his head. “I’m quite the enabler.”   
  
America started to retort, one fist clenching.   
  
France cut him off. “While I am thankful for the support of my friends, I’d like to defend myself, if I may.” He locked onto America’s stare once again, steady, unerring. A strange sort of calmness stole over him, and the cool weight of resolve settled in his chest. “I suggest that you accuse me of all that you intend to _now_ , so that we may address it at once. I’d rather this be out in the open and done with.” If there was one thing France was sure of, it was that he would not play the part of man who was guilt-stricken and chided. There was no regret in him, and he would not do America the disservice of feigning the emotion.   
  
“You… After everything he _did_ in the war, you…” America was shaking, and France could see in his face that he simply _did not understand_. More than that, France wasn’t sure he _could_. “Letting him live wasn’t a choice you had the right to make for all of us!”   
  
“I never claimed to,” France answered smoothly. “I lied to you and betrayed you. I’m not arguing that point. I’m merely attempting to explain why I did so, to explain why letting Prussia die would have been a greater betrayal.” He smiled. “Tell me, America… If you loved someone, no matter what they became, would you be willing to watch them die? Would you be able to kill them yourself?”   
  
America’s eyes fell, slid to the side, landed on Russia and then darted back to France in a moment so brief that France nearly missed it. “I…” He shook his head as if ridding himself of something. “No, that’s not the point!” His voice was a shout again. “People were hurt in that riot, France! People were _killed._ Are you telling me that he deserved to live more than they did?”   
  
“America…” England interrupted; France could hear exhaustion in his tone that hadn’t been there before the exchange had started. “I have had this discussion with France many times, and as should be evidenced by my continued relationship with him, he is not a villain in this. Do not mistake yourself.”   
  
“Are you fucking kidding m---”   
  
“ _America!_ ” England shouted the name like a reprimand. “Unless you are willing to suggest that you somehow know him better than I do, and unless you intend to pursue punishment when it is quite clear you are the only one at this table willing to push fault, this argument is wasted. We have important matters to tend to in the present, and it is irrational and irresponsible for us to resurrect transgressions that were resolved over half a century ago.”   
  
“Of course you’d say that, you’re _biased!_ You’re so desperate not to bring up the war that we never discuss things.” America snapped back, motioning wildly towards Prussia. “It was never resolved! As if having _him_ here every day isn’t supposed to be some giant smack in our faces?!”   
  
Germany’s voice was deceptively calm from his position a couple seats down from America, and it still stopped the superpower mid-rant. “You didn’t seem to feel that way last week when he was having drinks with you and your brother.”   
  
Everything stilled in the wake of the other nation’s words.   
  
For the breadth of time it took America to realize how angry Germany was and how to maintain justification while backpedaling, he looked sober, a little guilty. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said, voice shaking from a combination of anger and embarrassment. “I’m not saying…” he started again, “Nobody wants to take your brother away from you now, that’d be kinda pointless. But France committed a _crime_ and I can’t believe that nobody else _cares_.”   
  
England muttered something about circular logic and leaned towards France. “I _tried_.”   
  
“America,” France persisted, “England has a point. I’ve explained to you my position, and if there is one fact universal to us all, it is that history cannot be changed.” He cocked his head to the side. “What do you hope to accomplish from this?”   
  
The thundering boom of America’s hands hitting the table punctuated his question and made him jump in his chair. “ _I want you to admit that what you did was wrong!_ ”   
  
France spoke, heart pounding in his ears from the shock and an unexpected pooling of anger in his stomach. The last thing he should have felt was anger, but somehow the presumptuous assumption that he’d been in the wrong, the statement of that as fact, grated against his skin. “No,” he answered simply. “I will admit that I broke the law, used your trusting nature against you, hurt people in the process, and handed a nation specialized in war to your rising enemy- but nothing you say, no tantrum you throw, no meager threats meant to intimidate, and no amount of physical violence will make me say that what I did was _wrong._ For all intents and purposes, I did the right thing. It wasn’t the easy thing, not by any means; it was the choice that would allow me sleep at night.” He paused and drove the words home. “Isn’t that what a hero does?”   
  
America leaned over, slowly bringing himself to punching distance. “No,” he whispered. “A hero doesn’t use manipulation and conceit to win- they do it the good way.” As if remembering himself before he did something irreversible, America pushed up and away, storming towards the far end of the meeting room. “I get why you did it. I get that it can’t be taken back. And it’s obvious you wouldn’t take it back.” He stopped at the door, teeth gritted. “That doesn’t mean I’ll forget this.”   
  
The door slammed hard enough to make the hinges rattle.   
  
“Yeah!” Prussia called after him, “You’d better run!” Somehow, by all graces, he managed to omit an insult.   
  
France _breathed_ , laughed nervously.   
  
England looked irritable, grabbed up his papers with more than needed force. “He just had to go and make a bloody _scene_ didn’t he?”   
  
“He’s always had a flair for the dramatic.” There was, after all, a reason that Hollywood movies were distributed across the globe.   
  
Prussia clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Screw what Captain Douchecanoe says, antiheroes are way better.”   
  
\---   
  
France pretended Germany wasn’t looking at him, studying him like that. As they left, France whispered, “I do wish he would stop staring.” He tossed his hair. “It makes me feel as if I’ve grown a second head.”   
  
“You kind of have, if you think about it.” Prussia cackled, eyes bright with victory and rising amusement. With a lilt to his hips, he tossed an arm over France’s shoulder to say, “West’s just trying to figure out how to pay you back. He thinks he owes you.”   
  
“He may start by not staring at me,” France slipped an arm around Prussia’s waist. “I’m not sure I want your dear brother indebted to me- it’s far too intense for my liking. Besides, most of the favors I can think of would get us in trouble with our significant others.”   
  
The other snorted. “That’s because you’re just not creative enough.”   
  
They walked in silence for a few more steps. Within the span of heartbeats, the contact between them felt too tight, the air seemed to stagnate as a wall rose. France squeezed back in encouragement. “Come now. Out with it, I’d rather deal with it all today than store it for later.”   
  
“Right,” Prussia managed, all traces of actual humor gone. “Because if you leave it in there too long it gets fuzzy…”   
  
France waited until Prussia was ready to talk.   
  
“I just realized something,” the Germanic state said, more to the passing wall than France.   
  
“And what would that be?”   
  
“I never… you know, thanked you. For what you did.”   
  
France smiled. “I think that’s hardly necessary.”   
  
Prussia stopped short, broke the touch and pulled France’s hand until they faced each other. “No. It is.”   
  
With a soft sigh, France shook his head. There was a very familiar stubbornness in Prussia’s voice that only made his smile fonder. “Darling… you did what you promised me you would. You survived. You didn’t let yourself dissolve. You’ve adapted to this future. And… more than that…” His face grew more serious, the playfulness refining into something meaningful. “You’re making Canada, someone I love very dearly, happy.”   
  
“Yeah, and I wouldn’t have been able to do any of that if you hadn’t saved me. I won’t take it for granted,” Prussia pressed, a strong insistence in his eyes. “France… I… you’re…” he fumbled, and his grip on the other nation’s hand tightened. “Thank you.”   
  
The weight behind the two words was too much for the simple syllables to hold.   
  
The saving grace was that they now had years of life ---years of new words, new hopes, and new promises--- to distribute that weight between.   
  
France’s smile returned, warm, _happy_. “You’re welcome.”


End file.
